


Spring Conditions

by kilodalton



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 79,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilodalton/pseuds/kilodalton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a ficlet - A FICLET - for kelkat9, but it kept growing lol. All she asked for was a skiing AU and then this happened =)
> 
> * * *

He's completely smitten with her at first sight, head over heels, arse over elbow, name it and he feels it - she's a song and a dance, and he's a stuttering fool when he thinks about her. It's the way her blond hair dances as she laughs and smiles, and the coy little expression on her face that has John Smith completely infatuated. She's rich, beautiful and completely out of his league, and spends months flirting with him (well, with _everyone_ really, but he tries not to think about that). He's not sure she's even interested in him; until, that is, she invites him along to stay at her favorite resort in Chamonix-Mont-Blanc with a dozen of her closest friends on a ski trip in a few months' time.

He's so elated over the idea that _Jeanne Poisson_ invited him along that it doesn't immediately register that he doesn't know _how_ to ski.

The thought panics him slightly, even more so than his seeming inability to remember to pay his rent on time. As a university-level physics lecturer, he doesn't have a large salary, and knows he'll need to scrimp to afford the trip: resorts in the Alps are notoriously expensive, after all, and Chamonix more so than most. Still, he knows he'll manage - he always does, even if his bank account might not have much to show for it after the trip.

His lack of experience skiing however, is a different matter entirely, and one not so easily fixed. It bothers him- he's so used to being an expert in everything he does, that the thought of being a novice at something, not even sure where to begin, is rather uncomfortable for him. He knows he can't _tell_ her that he's never been skiing in his life - but also he knows he's brilliant, and he's sure he'll think of something. So, when he finds an ad for ski lessons in Swinhope Moor in the hills of Weardale, he signs up immediately. It sounds ridiculous at first, cross-country skiing through farmland in an abandoned mining town flanked by low-lying hills in the-middle-of-nowhere-UK hardly seems comparable at all to skiing in the awestrikingly dramatic beauty of the much-romanticized French Alps, but he signs up anyway. He feels like a fool, but he is a fool in love and he doesn't want to make an even bigger fool of himself in Chamonix not even know how to lace his skis.

Or, for that matter, if skis even _have_ laces.

After his lectures are over on one chilly Friday afternoon in November, he packs a weekend duffel bag and loads it into his old blue Volkswagon. Or, rather, what has the _body_ of a Volkswagon - he's interchanged so many parts to customize it to his exacting specifications over the years that on the inside, it's really part Toyota, part Citroën, part Vauxhall, and maybe a teeny-tiny-bit Mercedes S-class that was only pilfered in the most _literal_ sense of the word. He feels almost furtive, like he's sneaking away to do something secretive, and, in a way, he is. He's told hardly anyone of his weekend plans - his good friend Jack Harkness is the only one who knows about his skiing lessons, and since this adventure is in pursuit of _l'amour passionné_ , Jack heartily approves. More importantly, he knows Jack will keep quiet about this - the worst thing he can think of would be his embarrassment if word of his lessons in the back-of-beyond ever got back to Jeanne.

Smile on his face, he gets in his car, buckles the seatbelt, starts the engine (welll, that last part does take him two tries, and is finally achieved by use of a mallet he keeps under the driver's seat just for these kinds of emergencies). Ready for adventure, he cheerily starts driving north on the several-hour journey from London to Weardale.

How bad can it be?

\--

Five and a half _fucking_ hours later, he arrives.

It's snowing hard and fast, the kind of teeny-tiny flakes that feel like they've been crunched down into something like ice, and they bounce off his windshield with a rat-a-tat-tat that is starting to drive him crazy. The heavy snow, in combination with the dark, cloudy night sky, makes visibility nearly impossible, and he swerves to avoid hitting signposts more than once on the annoyingly curvy country roads. What concerns him most, however, is his tires - they're built for city driving and don't have enough traction to get him much further if the snow keeps falling at this rate. For this reason, he drives carefully, quite intent on avoiding the unpleasantness of skidding out and getting caught in a snowdrift overnight. In fact, he's alarmed to realize that since _(d/dt)*h*(t) = k_ , and _µk = F / N_ , and since the snow is falling at about half a centimeter per minute, he only has about 20 minutes before the coefficient of kinetic friction in his tires is not enough to keep his car on the road at _all_. (And _yes_ , he calculated that in his head, and, by the way, did he happen to mention he is _brilliant_?)

Thankfully, he can just make out a sign for a B&B up ahead, and pulls in to the parking lot. It appears to be some sort of an old converted farmhouse, and he's certainly not lucky enough for it to actually be the lodge at Swinhope Moor where he booked a room, but it's _something_ , and that's good enough. He supposes he'll spend the night here, and figure the rest out later. He always does, after all.

Clearly, he doesn't have a reservation, but the parking lot appears to be rather empty (or what he hopes is the parking lot seems rather empty - with the snow already carpeted several centimeters thick over the ground, he can't be completely certain). He parks and gets out of the car slowly, stretching his long, lean frame before grabbing his duffel bag and heading towards the entrance with an optimistic jaunt in his step.

The door is unlocked, and a little bell chimes as he lets himself inside the building as if to alert the proprietor of his presence. The inside of the B&B is deliciously warm in contrast to the brutal weather outside, and is decorated in what strikes him as a quaint country fashion that he's never seen closer to his home in London. The low, almost-dim lighting in the entrance underscores the old, rustic feel of the place, and he looks around, curious. The small reception area opens to an even smaller dining room, with a sitting room complete with a wood-burning fireplace off to the side. The entire place looks small, and worn, but cozy. He looks around but doesn't see anyone here at all.

"Hello?" he asks, into the air.

He soon gets a response - all of a sudden he hears the clear sound of footsteps clattering down a staircase.

"Coming - just a minute!" a female voice yells.

A moment later, bounding down stairs that he hadn't even noticed off in the corner, is a young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair. She appears to be in her late teens or early twenties, and she looks up at him, a bit breathless, as she wipes her hands on her blue jeans, straightens her T-shirt a little self-consciously, and tucks back a few wayward strands of her hair behind her ear.

"Sorry 'bout that, I only just got in! Can I help you?" she says, eyes friendly and bright.

"Uh, yes. My name is John Smith. I'm afraid I don't have a reservation, I was hoping to get to the ski lodge at Swinhope Moor but couldn't quite find it in this weather," he says, motioning to the window at the increasingly heavy snowfall.

She smiles, and for a moment it seems like the whole room brightens.

"You would've passed it about a kilometer back, it's not very well marked. I'll call them, make sure they know you're here, and we'll get a room set up for you, if you want?"

He nods and can't help smiling back at her.

"Your name's John, you said?"

"Yes ... John Smith," he says as she nods and hands him a pen, motioning for him to sign the guest register. "And I'm sorry, what's your name?"

Her face breaks into a smile again.

"My name's Rose."

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setting of the story is particularly important (and this will all be referenced again), so I wanted to spend some time setting it up here, to illustrate a bit about the universe this takes place in. I have spent so much time over the past few weeks researching old British mining towns I CAN'T EVEN lol =) Hope you enjoy!
> 
> * * *

As he fills out the paperwork Rose has motioned to, he answers the typical questions he expects of a form like this, though he hasn't been asked to fill out an actual _paper_ form in years now: name, address, phone number, intended length of stay. He supposes he'll just stay here the night then move to the lodge tomorrow, but he puts a question mark as the answer. He's a little surprised to be asked about his favorite meals and to see that the Prentice B&B makes all meals to order here, as B&Bs typically have their own menu based on local tastes and culture, and while guests certainly have input, they often just have the choice of either eating it, or eating elsewhere. He thinks that should be particularly true in a remote place like this. Eager to finish the form, he writes 'banana pancakes' for favorite meal just so he can be _done_ with it.

He pauses at the question about what brings him to Weardale in the first place: he'd feel a little foolish writing " _in love with a woman who assumes I can ski, so I'm trying to not embarrass myself in front of her_." Clearly, he can't write _that_.

Instead, he writes " _learning more about Weardale, and learning to ski_." There. Much less pathetic. It's hardly _inaccurate_ , considering how much time he'd spent trying to navigate the damn roads in the first place he feels like he already knows quite a bit about the place.

His eyes linger for a moment on the kitschy 1950s-style logo greeting customers at the bottom of the page, and he smiles a little at the novelty.

Meanwhile, Rose grabs a stack of towels, a room key, and a wireless phone from underneath the desk. Tucking the phone between her chin and shoulder, she begins to head up the slightly creaky staircase and he hears her speak as he finishes up the paperwork.

"Mickey, is that you? It's Rose. Listen - yeah I got home safe, thanks - ok, listen, John Smith is here. He's staying here tonight 'cos of the storm," she pauses for a moment and he hears her soft laugh trickle down the hallway. "Yeah, you too. Ok thanks, see you tomorrow."

Finally finished, he puts his pen and paper down on the small front desk, setting it next to a basket full of small crystals. There's a sign on the basket that reads _"BONNIE BITS,_ £ _1 each",_ which he supposes must be a local phrase because he's never heard of it before. The gemstones themselves inside the basket are pink and yellow, some gently flecked with what looks like gold dust but which he knows is far more likely to be cheap pyrite, better known as Fool's Gold.

After perusing the basket, he walks across the room, still waiting for Rose to return. As he looks more closely at his surroundings, he thinks this feels a little like stepping back in time, with the homey, rustic feel of this place, its classic old-time logo and family feel. The carpets look old and a little worn, but clean, and the thick curtains are a slightly garish shade of blue that doesn't quite match the surrounding decor.

On one wall hang several black-and-white photos of the old Weardale mining camps he'd vaguely heard about before booking his trip here. Clusters of dour-looking mine workers alongside their families and children looked starkly out from the photos, clearly taken in the heyday of the Weardale mines. He idly wonders what happened to all these people, as Weardale is now basically a ghost town except for the small ski industry, but his eyes soon wanders past the photos and onto the next item of interest on the wall.

Near the photos of the mine is a large, garish, somewhat odd-looking plaque with a large shiny pink crystal proudly cemented into the middle. " _WEARDALE - FLUORITE CAPITOL OF THE UNITED KINGDOM_ ". He considers it for a moment, somewhat entranced by the large, angular stone, and then moves on.

On the rest of the walls hang a collage of more modern family portraits and photos, some of them taken in the B&B (he recognizes the awful curtains), or outside of it with the sign in the background (he's right of course, and it _is_ a converted farmhouse). Several of the pictures feature ski slopes or skiiers; one of them is a picture of a young blonde girl in a pink skisuit with matching hat and skiboots, holding up a shiny trophy and grinning broadly at the camera. He walks over to it and can't help smiling back at the photo, half-wondering by her big smile if it's a younger version of the girl he just met.

Soon he hears her quick step descending the staircase once more, coming to a slow halt behind him. He turns around slowly and catches her gaze to find her smiling at him.

"All set then?" she asks, and for a moment he's not sure what she means until he remembers the paperwork she'd handed him.

"Oh, right! Yes," he replies, heading back towards the desk and handing her the completed form. She looks over the page for a moment, and pauses, smiling slightly to herself as her eyes linger over the question about what brings him to Weardale.

“S’nice,” she finally says, still smiling, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Not a lot of people nowadays are interested in learning about towns like this anymore. We’ll make sure to show you around, if you want.”

He can’t help smiling back at her in assent, though he feels a little disingenuous.

She hands him the room key, a simple Yale key on a chain, and motions for him to follow her up the staircase. Grabbing his bag, he gladly obliges. It's a wider staircase than he would have expected in such an old house, and they're able to walk side by side up the stairs. On the wall by the stairs is a scattered, busy patchwork of more photos, old and new, detailing the history of both Weardale and the family photos taken in and around the Prentice B&B.

"Did you grow up here?" he asks.

"Yeah," she responds softly, motioning to a slightly faded photo of a large group picnic taken outside the B&B.

She points to a little girl in the photo with brown hair, "That's me. Place's been in my family for years now. My grandpa runs it mainly, but I help him out."

He nods, and they fall into silence.

"Anyway," she says, eyes nervously fluttering away from his, across the other photos, then towards a closed door. "Your room is the first door on the right. If you need anything, just call extension 1, it goes straight to my room. Breakfast starts at 7, so ..."

She breaks off and smiles.

"I'll leave you to it then. Goodnight John."

"Goodnight Rose, and thank you."

He smiles back at her, stepping towards his room, turns the key in the Yale lock and steps inside.

She lingers in the hall for a moment longer, hands shoved slightly awkwardly in her pockets, then heads back downstairs.

\--

The room is average-sized and plain, completely unremarkable and exactly what he expected. More local pictures on the wall, more oddly-colored curtains, more slightly creaky floorboards. He peers briefly out the window, and although it’s dark, he can still see the snow falling heavily, tiny white specks against the black sky. Good ski weather at least, he supposes, assuming he can even get his car there tomorrow.

He tosses his bag on the floor with a sigh, then flops on the bed and stretches his long limbs out. It feels amazing, actually, to finally lie down: he hadn’t realized he’d felt so tense and achy on the drive up. The mattress is certainly quite comfortable, and he slowly lets himself relax, soon falling asleep.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *

John wakes up early — well, early for _him_ at any rate — to sunlight streaming in through a gap where the curtains of his room haven’t completely closed. Rising slowly, he realizes he hadn’t even changed out of his clothes from last night. He sighs, stretches, and shuffles over to the window. Parting the curtains slowly, his sleep-bleary eyes blink rapidly, adjusting to the light.

It’s almost breathtaking, he thinks. Now that it’s daylight, he can see all the way to the horizon. The land here stretches out flat and static for what looks like several kilometers, then sweeps down into sudden valleys and back up into gently rolling hillside. There are barely any trees, and the few leafless ones he does see dot the landscape sparsely. It’s a cloudy day, with the sun peeking out, and it glistens off the snow-covered earth like diamonds.

It’s clearly not the Alps, he thinks, but it’s lovely all the same.

However, he can’t help but note with a small grimace, as far as the eye can see, everything is coated in a thick blanket of snow high enough to come up to the bumper of his car. He can’t even see where the road is, as neither it nor the parking lot has been plowed. In fact, as far as the eye can see, _nothing_ has been plowed, he notes with a sinking feeling. There appear to be multiple sets of twin parallel lines in the snow, which he assumes to be ski tracks, headed from the front door of the B&B in various directions. Other than that the snow is pristine, and completely undisturbed. This does not bode well for getting to his ski lesson: he can hardly ski his way out of here as others appear to have done, since he has no idea _how_ to ski in the first place.

With another sigh he ambles over to the en-suite, strips off his clothes, and steps into the shower. The water is mercifully hot, kneading out the last of the kinks in his muscles from the long car ride yesterday. It feels fantastic. He chocks it up to his imagination, but the water almost feels _different_ here than in London. It’s not the water pressure, or the showerhead, it’s something that feels almost energizing about the way the water hits and pings off his body like tiny little starbursts, and then evaporates, misting hazily in the air around him. He can’t put his finger on it, but it feels like anticipation, like adventure. He shakes his head, knowing exactly how daft that sounds even in his own head. Must be just his excitement at finally learning how to ski for Chamonix.

After getting dressed in jeans and a jumper (what the hell are you _supposed_ to wear to a ski lesson?) he saunters downstairs for breakfast.

Arriving in the front hall, John looks around briefly but doesn’t see Rose anywhere, doesn’t see _anyone_ anywhere. He hears some rattling noises that appear to be coming from the kitchen, so he heads that way. Ducking his head through an open doorway, he sees a white-haired man in an apron scrubbing busily at a pile of dishes over a sink.

“Hello! Sorry to disturb you but I heard someone in here —“ John says apologetically with a wave.

The man turns suddenly with a big smile.

“Well hello! My name’s Wilf, welcome to the Prentice B&B,” the white-haired man says, rinsing off his soapy fingers, striding over to John and reaching out to shake his hand. “You must be John Smith, Rose was telling me we got a surprise guest in last night! Would you like some breakfast?”

“Yes, wonderful, thank you,”

“Banana pancakes with whipped cream and buttermilk, right?” Wilf says, taking a dishrag and drying off a freshly washed pancake pan.

John starts a little, surprised that Wilf would know about his breakfast of choice, then quickly remembers he’d answered a question about his favorite foods on the paperwork he’d filled out the night before. He smiles, finding this gesture a bit touching, even though he’d only just met these people. Still... he’s seems to be the only guest here now, and although he is paying to stay here, he truly doesn’t want to impose on this man’s generosity. Something about seeing the older man go out of his way like that for him, completely unnecessarily, just to provide him with a breakfast he’d ordered on a whim, makes John feel like a bit of an ass for writing it down in the first place.

“You don’t need to cook anything special for me,” John says. “Tea and cereal would do just fine, that’s what I usually have.”

Wilf shakes his head and continues gathering ingredients: bananas and eggs and flour and sugar and baking powder and begins making the breakfast from scratch. It smells _delicious_.

“Oh it’s no bother. Most of our guests get up at daybreak for skiing, they’re long gone so it’s only you and me here for now. Besides, we were out of bananas so I took the snowmobile out to the general store first thing this morning, so you might as well eat!" Wilf says with a laugh.

Now he _really_ feels like an ass for writing it down in the first place. He’s all of a sudden struck with the thought that he should be _helping_.

After a moment, Wilf adds, "Rose’ll be back in a bit, she went out to arrange about your lesson. Might as well eat up for it, you’ll need the energy.”

John raises his eyebrows, grateful that Rose had seen fit to look after him this way, but it surprises him even more than the offer of banana pancakes: his ski lessons would seem to be no concern of hers at all.

“Well … that’s very kind of her. My lesson is supposed to be at Swinhope Moor, I’m just not sure how I’ll get there with the snow this deep,” John says. He doesn’t want to complain, can’t complain — Wilf is far too kind already — but the drive up here was brutal and he’d hate for it to be all for naught.

Wilf shrugs and gives him a smile as the grill begins to sizzle.

“You’ll be fine, it’s still early. Rose’ll get you sorted,” Wilf says, unconcerned. “Rodrigo will be by later today with the lorry, he’ll get it plowed.”

Soon thereafter, John digs in to the delicious pancakes, the first home-cooked breakfast he’s had in years.

\--

Later, as he gratefully helps Wilf clear the plates from the table — which he had to do rather insistently, mind, as Wilf was intent on doing it himself and not letting John lift a finger — the bell on the front door rings, signaling an arrival. Soon Rose’s voice rings out: “Gramps, I’m back, I’ve got the ski — “

She enters the kitchen, trussed out in a hot pink snowsuit, snowflakes sprinkled across her hat and hair.

She raises an eyebrow and gives a big grin to the sight she sees, John and Wilf standing side by side by the sink, Wilf washing while John dries.

“You have a new employee, hmm?” she teases.

Wilf turns to face her with a look of faux accusation on his face.

“See now Rose, this young man has only been here for 1 day —“

“Not even, Wilf, twelve hours more like — “

“Twelve hours, Rose!” Wilf nods emphatically. “And he’s already spending more time with me here in the kitchen than you do in a month!”

“That’s because I can’t cook, Gramps. One meal from me, and all our guests would leave us and go stay at Swinhope Lodge,” Rose laughs, leaning up against the doorframe.

Wilf laughs along with her, and John suddenly feels a little bad about his initial plan to stay here just for the night then move to the Lodge today. Not that he even _could_ , with his car still buried, but even so, he likes these people. It may be old here, but it’s comfortable, and they’re kind, and he doesn’t want to take business away from them.

“Now dishes I'm good at — even _I_ can’t burn dishwater!” Rose says, stripping off her coat and hat and donning an apron. She playfully swats Wilf and motions that he should go sit down, then she takes his place at the sink.

“You wash, I dry?” John asks her, and she responds by smiling up at him, surprised.

“Sure — can’t say guests here help out often, but that would be great,” she says, still holding his gaze a moment longer and smiling.

John can’t help returning a smile back at her. He nods and continues drying the dishes at her side, having almost worked off his twinge of guilt over causing Wilf to make a special trip on his behalf. As he and Rose work in sync together, he decides this is the _oddest_ yet most enjoyable hotel stay he’s had in a long time.

\--

As the last plates are washed, dried, and put away on the shelf, Rose leans back against the counter and begins to untie her apron.

“So,” she says, brushing a few strands of stray hair out of her eyes, “are you ready for your ski lesson?”

John frowns, a little puzzled. “Well, I would be, but there’s no getting to Swinhope Moor yet, is there?”

She grins up at him, that bright megawatt grin he’s been seeing so regularly all morning, except this time there's something almost mischievous about the look in her eyes.

“Well, you’re lucky then, because the ski instructor you were assigned to at Swinhope Moor just so happens to be here at the Prentice B&B.”

He brightens visibly — perhaps he can still make some progress skiing today after all!

“Really?” he smiles. “Who would that be?”

Her impossibly big smile gets even bigger.

“Me!” she says.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I super appreciate the reviews, the favorites, and the reblogs on Tumblr, you all have NOOOOOO idea. I'm always so worried about how things will be received soooo .... thanks =) And just FYI this is fluffy FOR NOW, and that's all i'm saying ((heheheheh evil laugh))
> 
> * * *

Slightly surprised by this turn of events, he follows her back into the front hall, which was empty a few minutes ago as he was eating breakfast. Now a myriad of ski equipment clutters it: two pairs of skis, with matching boots, and ski-poles, lean up intermingled against the wall. John swallows, excited to learn - he loves learning, always has - but he's nervous at the same time. He's completely out of his element here, and can barely put a name to some of the equipment. It's an odd feeling, one he's not used to - he’s not completely sure he minds it, though.

"I picked up your rental equipment at the Lodge this morning - skis, poles, and boots, right?"

John nods, a little bit dumbfounded. Suddenly a thought occurs to him: this pile of equipment is _huge_.

"Hold on - you skied there and back?" he asks, bewildered. "How did you carry all this back with you?"

She shrugs. "Makeshift backpack," she says, and leaves it at that.

He barely knows her, but he finds he's growing more and more impressed with Rose Tyler by the minute.

The front hall has no seating, and is a bit small for them to have enough space to put on all their equipment, so he follows Rose through the kitchen and out into a small, add-on garage. With practiced motion, she carries her own equipment in one hand, skis perched expertly over her shoulder, base to base. He insists on carrying his own equipment and tries to mimic her motion, though it feels awkward and he's sure he doesn't look as casually confident as she does. Why he's even _worried_ about what he looks like is a mystery to him - she's his instructor after all, she knows he's a complete novice. He just doesn't want to look like a fool, he supposes.

She leans her load against the garage wall and John does the same. Rose motions to a narrow wood plank bench alongside the garage wall and he sits on it. He waits _almost_ patiently, watching her as she turns a crank to open the garage door, letting in both light as well as tufts of snow from the snowdrift that had accumulated by the door overnight. Ambling back towards John, she picks up the ski boots he'd left with the rest of the equipment by the wall and hands them to him.

"Here," she says. "Try these on and let me know how they feel."

They spend a good five minutes with him sitting on the bench and Rose on the floor at his feet, helping him with his ski boots, making sure they're the right fit and size. Then she asks him to walk around the garage for an additional few minutes, inquiring repeatedly about how the boots feel on his toes, heels, and instep. He tries to reassure her that she really doesn't need to bother, he's sure they'll be suitable and they seem to fit just fine - they _look_ just fine, after all, but she overrides his objections.

"Making sure you have the right fit ... 's really important," she insists, though her eyes are gentle and almost apologetic.

"How so?" he asks, sitting down on the bench to be at eye level with her as they talk; he _wants_ to know, after all.

"The ski is like an extension of your foot," she explains, her voice taking on a slightly wistful tone. "It's like... you're out there on the slopes, and sometimes, well a _lot_ of times, you're going a little fast, and it's wild and it's beautiful out there, but it can be dangerous. It can be more than you can handle sometimes, if you're not expecting it. You need a boot that fits right, that's how you control how fast you're going. That's how you end up where you want to be on the slope, and not in a ditch somewhere - and trust me, that happens!" she laughs.

He smiles, and lets her continue her adjustments until she's satisfied.

Standing up, she helps him to his feet, takes a step back, and looks at him deliberatively, hands on her hips, biting her lip slightly. All of a sudden she breaks into a smile.

“You’re going to get soaked in those jeans!” she laughs. “You definitely need real ski wear. How many lessons did you plan to book?”

“Twelve,” he responds, having the number of weeks til Chamonix seared in his mind.

She nods and looks him over once again. If her gaze lingers on him just a moment longer than necessary, he doesn't notice.

"You'll want some proper ski wear then. Something waterproof but breathable. They have a small store up at Swinhope Moor, but you'd get a better selection if you bought something in London and just brought it with you next week. You'll need proper ski-pants, gloves, and you'll need a waterproof jacket too. A helmet wouldn't be a bad idea either, just to be safe."

He nods, mentally making a note to buy all of the items she's listed. Except the helmet - he shudders to think what that would do to his hair.

"We can start here, maybe head off to the lodge later today or tomorrow morning. We've got a small hill in the back that would be good practice for you later today or tomorrow, but first we'll learn some basics."

She picks up his skis and he follows her to the garage doorway, where a gentle breeze has begun to blow in a few rogue snowflakes from the snowdrift outside. The ground outside is perfectly flat, but Rose had said they were starting with 'basics' so he supposes this is what she intends. She places his skis on the snow in front of him, about shoulder-width apart. He excitedly takes a deep breath because _this is it_ , an adventure in the making, and one that will soon hopefully lead him to a new, to an even _better_ adventure together with Jeanne, thanks to Rose's help.

She hands him his ski poles, instructing him to put his weight on them. She then helps him guide first one boot into the ski bracing, snapping it into place, and then the other boot. Within moments, he certainly _looks_ the part of a skier, but looks of course can be highly deceiving. As Rose puts on her own skis, John notes that the ski poles have wrist-straps attached to them. Intending to secure himself to them, especially on his first day, he begins to wrap it around his wrist and clasp it in place.

"Don't use the wrist-strap around here," Rose's voice pipes up as he's in the middle of fastening it. "Never when you're off-piste like this. That's lesson number one. On the slopes it's OK, but around here ... there could be branches or roots under the snow. The pole could get caught on something. I've seen people break their wrist that way."

John nods, absorbing every word. This is completely new to him, alien and foreign, and it should put him on edge: after all, he hates feeling like he is outside his comfort zone. Instead, it feels glorious.

Rose has him glide forward several metres, instructing him to _glide_ his skis forward using his poles for balance. Her mouth quirks up in a smile as he initially attempts to lift his skis and _walk_ the distance.

"First thing you need to do," she says, skiing in front of him a few additional meters before turning around gracefully, her hair dancing in the light breeze behind her. "You need to learn how to fall."

"To _fall_?" he asks, a bit surprised, having only just managed to stand. Wasn't keeping one's balance the point of this?

"Yup," she replies. "You need to learn how to fall, because you _will_ fall, and the most important thing you need to do is to learn how to get back up again."

She smiles at him, a tongue-touched grin, and he finds himself smiling back at her reflexively.

They spend the rest of the day falling, and getting up, and learning to hop in place, and falling multiple more times ( _accidentally_ he admits) and getting up yet again, until Wilf calls them in that it's time for tea. It astonishes him — he thought he was pretty good at keeping track of time, but his lesson with Rose has sped by so fast it seems like it lasted only a brief moment.

He comes in wet, and tired, and freezing, and achy, but grinning like a loon.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *

After tea (and a change of clothes), John is eager to get back outside and continue their lesson. There’s still so much he wants to learn: simply learning the proper way to fall while on skis is all fine and good, but Rose had promised him he could try a real, genuine hill this time, and he's not about to miss it for the world. He still doesn't enjoy feeling like a novice, but he finds he quite likes the idea of skiing, especially how Rose has described it. There's something that feels a little wild about this, not only braving the harsh elements, but indeed laughing in Mother Nature’s face a bit, by strapping on skis to make the slick snow even slicker, racing down a slope and making the chill winds cut even colder against his skin.

It feels free and exhilarating, even — both of which are certainly lacking in his day-to-day life back in the city, as he plods from office to flat to office, occasionally with some beans on toast thrown in there for good measure. Oh he loves London, always has, but this - _this_ \- is a little bit of danger, a little bit of risk - and it lights something inside him he didn't know existed.

"I gotta say, it's been a long time since I've met a new skier who's been so dedicated - 4 hours of lessons, in one day!" Rose says with a smile, casting a coy sidelong glance at him as they get their gear and go back outside, traisping side by side through the snow.

It's even colder now than it was earlier in the day, and when they exhale their breath mists into tiny, cool crystals. Although the sun is still out, the shadows of the leafless trees outside are lengthening, almost reaching the base of the small hill. They won’t have much time together out here, but John means to make the most of it.

"Wellll, I've always been a star pupil, especially when I have an excellent teacher," he quips back with a wink.

She just laughs, a small, almost self-deprecating chortle, but a small blush colors her cheeks, and John chocks it up to the biting cold weather.

For the next hour, she teaches him the wedge position with his skis. It feels terribly awkward and he feels like a gangly pigeon, pointing his feet inwards and squatting slightly, but Rose seems pleased with his progress, he learns how to stop while skiing, and he even makes it down the hill once without falling. Granted, it takes him ten tries, but Rose cheers and gives him a big hug in congratulations — which surprises him slightly, but he hugs her back, happy and proud of his own progress.

After an hour outside, he's flushed and sweaty yet freezing, his clothes once again caked with snow that is slowly melting and turning his jeans stiff with wet, slushy frost. At this point, after sizing up his appearance with a frown, Rose insists they go back inside.

"Best not overdo it on your first day," she advises. "You'll be sore enough as is, and you've got that long car ride back tomorrow. Besides, Gramps will have dinner ready soon!"

John is disappointed, oddly enough he's having the time of his life, but he doesn’t argue — much. He fancies himself brilliant, mind, and generally in circumstances such as this he’d press on regardless of what an 'instructor' would say - John would prove his point, show his superior intellect and get his way. But … there’s something about Rose. He barely knows her, but somehow, almost instinctively, he trusts her judgment.

John’s clothes are completely drenched by the time he gets indoors, the frost quickly melting on his jeans, making them heavy and wet. When he goes back upstairs, he’s annoyed to find that his jeans from earlier today still aren’t dry, either. He hadn’t thought to pack more than 2 changes of clothes, and all he has is his pajamas... with a sigh, he puts them on and heads down to dinner.

Rose quirks an eyebrow as he sheepishly descends the staircase for dinner in just a pair of thin, striped pajama pants and a plain tee shirt, then offers to toss his jeans in the clothes dryer, an offer to which John gladly agrees. As she darts to the laundry room with his jeans, he attempts to suavely take his place at the dinner table in his pajamas.

Dinner is a small affair, just John, Wilf, Rose and two other guests, a husband-and-wife skiing couple from the city of Durham, close to an hour’s car ride away from Weardale.

“So how long have you owned this place, Wilf?” the husband asks.

“Oh, let’s see,” says Wilf with a sigh, drawing his hand over his face as he considers the question. “This land goes farther back in my family than I can remember, generations really. It was a farm first, corn I think, back in the 1700s — we were all Prentices back then, mind! That’s how the farm got its name. Then, mining started to bring more people into town, and that made a better living for folks, so most of the young men started to work the mines. We’ve been a B&B now for about 50 years, give or take, since the mines closed. But you know about that I’m sure,” Wilf says with a small chuckle, although he doesn’t seem to be trying to be funny.

Wilf looks back and forth towards the man and the woman, eyes bright, as if he is happy to answer any questions and perhaps even would welcome them. But the couple both nod pleasantly, and go back to concentrating on their dinner. It strikes John that they might have not been interested in the question at all in the first place, really, and might have been just trying to make polite conversation. But Wilf’s silence leaves a void at the table, like there’s a question waiting to be asked, a story waiting to be told. John looks back towards the other room, towards the mining paraphernalia on the walls, the “bonnie bits” (whatever the hell _those_ were) for sale at the front desk, the old portraits of mining families still hanging on the walls, decades after they’d left town for god-knows-where, and his curiosity is piqued.

“I actually don’t know — what happened to the mines?” John asks, not even sure why he cares. Twenty-four hours ago he's pretty sure _he_ wouldn't have given a damn either.

"They shut down," Rose says. "Too expensive to keep them open, especially when people could get fluorite and lead for cheaper from other places. At least, that's what my dad always said."

He means to ask her about that, especially about her father, as it just seems to be Rose and Wilf here now - but the wife from Durham soon asks for a glass of sparkling water, and Rose excuses herself from the table to get it for her.

\--

After dinner, Wilf offers the guests a drink in the sitting room. There’s a distillery near Consett, a relatively short ride from Weardale, and Wilf has an array of locally-made beers and ciders. The couple from Durham decline and head upstairs, eager to get to bed early to maximize their ski time tomorrow. John knows he needs to head back to London early in the morning as well, but he gladly accepts Wilf’s offer, and he heads to the sitting room with Wilf and Rose.

It’s not a large room, but it’s impressive nonetheless. The floors are old-style wooden planks, polished to a satiny amber, and the original thick wooden wall beams have been left exposed. A comfortable-looking blue sofa, and a slightly worn-looking brown easy chair are the main furnishings in the room. There’s a large, antique clock prominently tick-tocking against the wall opposite the fireplace, which is fantastic in and of itself.

“The only rule we have is that the easy chair belongs to Gramps!” Rose laughs, as Wilf hands the cold glasses of beer around and nestles in to what is clearly his favorite place to sit.

“That’s a lovely fireplace,” John says, partly because he means it — it _is_ lovely, made of rugged, mixed stones, and is extraordinarily wide and deep — and partly because it’s an excuse for him to scoot closer to it. He’s cold, and the beer is cold, which is only making him shiver more. His thin pajama pants are meant for summer weather, and his body still remembers the chill from earlier outdoors. He declines a seat on the sofa and instead sits cross-legged on the floor a respectable distance from the flames, holding the chilled beverage in his hands.

“It’s the original,” Rose says, plopping herself down on the floor as well and smiling at the impressed look on his face. “Used to be used for cooking, back in the 1700s when the farm was first built. It’s still functional, even — never know when someone will ask for a genuine roast.”

John nods, staring wonderingly at the hearth, and gathers his knees closer up towards his chest.

Rose laughs softly, “You look like you’re freezing,” she says.

“Me?” he knits his eyebrows together and feigns surprise, and doesn’t manage to suppress a small shiver.

“You can use this, if you want,” she says — and there’s that smile again! It’s the one with the tongue, and he knows, even this soon after meeting her, that it’s the smile she gives him when she’s quite enjoying a laugh at him. “I do, when I’m cold…”

She leans over and opens up a small, antique-looking chest next to the sofa, then tosses something fluffy and pink at him.

A. Hot. Pink. _Snuggie_.

He rolls his eyes, but her eyes are mirthful and he finds he very much likes making her laugh, so he grins and puts it on anyway as they finish their beverages.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may be able to tell, although this has started off rather fluffy, there may be some rocky times ahead for our OTP. It is a Ten/Rose fic tho so  yeah =) Just setting expectations!! =)
> 
> * * *

True to Wilf's word, Rodrigo has the parking lot plowed that night, and even goes to the trouble of excavating John's car. Of course, John doesn’t notice any of this until the next morning, when he wakes with a yawn, a stretch, and a smile, and plods over to the window to survey the outdoors. His breath fogs the window slightly, and he sees that the snow seems not to have melted at all — if anything, it looks _more_ frozen, coated with a thin layer of morning dew and glistening prettily. From his vantage point, the roads still don’t seem _well_ plowed, but are certainly serviceable enough to get him home to London. He notes that except for the same ski tracks he’d noticed yesterday, the snow hardly seems disturbed at all. He thinks of how in London, by now it would be tamped down, dirty and grey under the weight of thousands of shoes and shovels and grimy cars, and wonders slightly that this is still pristine and glistening white. It’s one of the many things that makes him feel like he’s taken a step back in time when coming up here: this hardly seems like the 21st century at all. It feels like a land of pioneers and fresh starts, set apart from his real life in London, and he’s suddenly doubly glad he’s keeping this little adventure to himself.

He repacks his few belongings, then descends the staircase with his duffel bag, feeling a momentary regret that the weekend has flown by so fast. Having originally intended his trip here to just be a means to an end of being closer with Jeanne, he’s surprised to find that he’s enjoyed it as much as he had. He’s also surprised to find he’s enjoyed _skiing_ as much as he had as well, and hopes it will be even better in the future, with more training from Rose and proper equipment.

After a quick breakfast of tea and cereal (which he’d _insisted_ on, rather than have Wilf spend so much time making him yet another elaborate meal), he’s ready to go and shuffles over to the front desk with his bag. Yet again, he and Wilf seem to be the only people at the B &B — everyone else appears to already be gone for the day, or still sleeping.

“Thank you for coming, we hope you enjoyed your stay,” Wilf says with a smile, bustling behind the desk to finalize John’s checkout.

“I certainly did,” John muses, eyes scanning quickly around the room.

“Looking for Rose?” Wilf asks.

John looks at him, startled. It’s not like he was looking for anyone in _particular,_ mind, and Wilf’s question surprises him slightly.

“She took the other couple who is staying here up over to Swinhope Moor early this morning,” Wilf says. “She won’t be back til later — did you want to leave a message for her?”

John shakes his head in a silent no. It’s not like he has anything particularly _important_ to say to her, she’s just his instructor after all, and he’ll see her in another week’s time, anyway. And it’s not like he was even _looking_ for her to begin with, after all.

As Wilf hands John his receipt with a smile on his face, John asks if he could book a room for the next weekend as well, and Wilf’s smile gets even bigger.

\--

He goes to work on Monday sore and achy just as Rose had warned him, and soon receives news guaranteed to make him even _more_ sore and achy. It comes in the form of a memo in his office mailbox, on a blindingly yellow sheet of paper that hurts his eyes a little with its faux perkiness. Everyone in the physics department has to pack up their offices and move to a mobile building, for some nebulously-phrased reason having to do with construction and personnel safety. To John, all it means is more work and inconvenience. He’s suddenly glad Rose made him stop skiing when she did — his legs and back are _already_ sore and _now_ he apparently needs to spend the rest of the day sorting ten years’ worth of belongings from his office.

He's sitting at his soon-to-be-former desk, trying to decide how the _hell_ to box up a prism spectrophotometer, when a knock on his open door grabs his attention.

His eyes flick to the doorway and he smiles softly as he takes in the sight of Jeanne, leaning against the doorframe, ankles casually crossed and looking at him with a wry smile.

“What’ve you been up to?” she asks with a demure smile.

He shrugs, and leans back in his chair, attempting to duplicate her casual posture.

“This and that,” he says with a grin.

Her smile broadens at this, and she enters his office and perches on the edge of his desk. She doesn’t wait for an invitation, which is all fine and good to him because she’s never needed one as far as he’s concerned. She smoothes the hem of her skirt then glances prettily back up at him.

“They’re making the French department move today as well … would you help me move my desk? I’m afraid I’m not dressed for it,” she says, pointing at her silk blouse and fitted skirt. She’s wearing high heels, too, making her slender legs look even longer and more shapely. He tries not to stare, knowing he’s failing badly and not quite caring. He may be achy, and the crick in his back may be throbbing viscerally at her request, but he nods gladly, happy to spend time with her.

As far as John’s _own_ office move goes, he enlists two of his brightest students to help. It's nothing they _have_ to do of course, but he's their teacher and he's well aware they're unlikely to say no if he asks — especially if he offers them something in return. His two 'volunteers' are Clyde and Luke, who are best friends, although an unlikely duo in John’s opinion. Clyde has always struck John as the more social, outgoing type, while Luke … well, Luke is _brilliant_ , but never quite seemed to John to have Clyde’s finesse in social situations. Somehow, this makes John like Luke all the more, and he’s always wanted to take him under his wing a bit — and for John, this presents a perfect opportunity to do so. John promises both boys an opportunity to work with him on a research project — a highly coveted opportunity — and is pleased to see they’ve packed up his whole office (included that bloody prism spectrophotometer) by the time he’s done helping Jeanne.

\--

That afternoon, on his way home from work, he stops by the Snow + Rock ski store, looking for the ski gear that Rose had recommended. Even for something as simple as ski pants, he finds the selection completely overwhelming. There are literally _racks_ of ski pants, which are apparently also called _salopettes_ from what he can tell, in all different materials and styles. Some even look like more like overalls with suspenders. He honestly doesn’t know where to begin, and as the salesperson seems to be wanting to direct him to the most expensive options, he kindly tells her he’s just looking and pulls out his mobile, dialing the number of the one person he hopes can help him sort this out.

It rings once before the call is picked up.

“Prentice B&B ... may I help you?”

“Nylon or polyester?” he chirps into his mobile.

“… pardon?” Rose asks, her voice sounding amused enough for him to feel confident that she knows _exactly_ who is calling her and why, and the thought makes him smile into the phone.

“Ski pants,” he says, as his fingers flip through another rack of microfiber microfleece.

“Nylon’s better, it doesn’t tear as easily. And get water _proof_ not water-resistant. Look for down or fleece insulation — especially if it has extra reinforcement in the seat, given how much you’ll probably be falling if this past weekend was anything to go by.”

He makes a shocked sound he intends to come off as outraged, but which instead sounds more like a mewling even to his own ears — and certainly to hers, by the laugh he gets in response.

“Oh! And try to get a pair that you can extend down over the top of your boots — they say the snow is supposed be deep around here this winter, so that will be a little better for you.”

He wants to ask her about snow in the Alps, if the same type of pant would work just as well in Weardale as Chamonix — the ski wear is certainly expensive enough that he’d hate to have to buy multiple sets — but he’s still a bit embarrassed to tell her the reason for his lessons, or frankly at this point to admit that he’s even _going_ to a resort aimed at accomplished skiers — which he most assuredly is _not_ \- so he decides against it.

By the time they’re done with their conversation, it’s been 45 minutes, and she’s helped him pick out an entire ski wardrobe (having logged on to the store’s website from the B&B for that express purpose, and _yes John_ , there is internet access in Weardale). He rings off with a smile on his face, feeling inexplicably lighter than he has all day.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *

The rest of John’s week goes by in a blur. He buys a copy of _SKI_ magazine on his way home from the university and devours every article in it, from detailed discussions of ski techniques, to reviews of resorts he hasn’t even _heard_ of in the USA, and idly wonders if Rose has been to any of these far-off slopes. In fact, his entire week is inexplicably wrapped up in thoughts of skiing now, even more so than when he first decided to take lessons to impress Jeanne — he subscribes to a skiing newsletter, as well as a YouTube channel filled with tips for beginners. He finds he’s quickly throwing himself fully into the process of becoming a skier — he wants to make every moment count in his lessons. After all, he’s brilliant in absolutely everything else he does, why should skiing be any different? The fact that he’s taking lessons at all is still a secret to nearly everyone — but it’s _his_ secret, and he cherishes it. It’s already become a bit of an escape for him, the one bit of adventure he has, and he wants to keep it that way.

He packs up and leaves work early on Friday to make the trek back up to Weardale, hoping that if he gets there early enough, he might even get another one of Wilf’s home-cooked meals, which certainly beats the leftover takeaway in his refrigerator. Nobody will miss him if he leaves early, anyway — Jeanne’s office is unfortunately now clear on the other side of campus, and the only students who regularly come to his office are Luke and Clyde, whom he can easily set up with their much-desired project this weekend.

Arriving at the B&B several hours later, John casually strides up to the entrance. The door chime jangles as he saunters in, and he immediately sees Rose and Wilf sitting on the carpet in the sitting room, boxes and packing popcorn surrounding them, the unmistakeable scent of freshly-opened cardboard and shrinkwrap filling the room. There’s a television on the carpet in front of them, and it’s turned around to face the wall with its electronics panel exposed on the back.

Rose looks up inquisitively at the door from her place on the floor, clearly not expecting anyone this early in the day. When she meets John’s eyes, her face instantly breaks into an impossibly big smile and she immediately rises, bounding over to greet him with a friendly wave. Wilf half turns around and gives John a smile and a cheery wave as well, but his attention is soon turned back to … whatever is currently captivating him.

“New telly?” John asks Rose as she arrives at his side. He nods at the boxes and electronic detritus still surrounding Wilf on the other side of the room.

Rose looks back over her shoulder towards her grandfather, who is still sitting on the carpet, reading glasses perched low on his nose and looking at what seems to be an instruction sheet.

“Sort of,” Rose shrugs. “New Sky box, just connecting it all up to the telly and satellite before the guests arrive. Well, _most_ of the guests,” she says with a small, almost self-conscious giggle, looking up at him with a raise of her eyebrows.

He grins cheekily back at her and she smiles up at him, biting her lip.

“Can I … can I get you something to drink?” she asks. “Tea … or beer, or I think we have some cider still, I was going to drive to the store a little later, but if you want I can —“ her voice trails off.

He shakes his head, eyes fixed on Wilf, who is sitting on the floor, muttering something under his breath.

“Problem, Wilf?” John asks, striding over to the older man, hands in his pockets.

“These companies nowadays,” Wilf says, putting down the sheet of paper, shaking his head and flipping through the packaging like he’s looking for something. “Seems to be a missing piece here, or the cable’s the wrong kind! Supposed to be full installation, they just drop off the box and leave!”

John plops to the floor unceremoniously beside Wilf and sits cross-legged on the carpet. He’s only too glad for an opportunity to help out the older man, who went out of his way for John last week at breakfast. And, to be honest, John loves being a _bit_ impressive with his knowledge of electronics, particularly with his new acquaintances as an audience. He whips his glasses out of his pocket in order to see the tiny threads on the cable better.

“It’s the wrong type of connector,” John says decisively, holding it up in his hand as Wilf and Rose nod in silent agreement, seeming slightly underwhelmed by his proclamation — that much, they’d _clearly_ gathered on their own. “Is this the only thing they gave you?”  
Wilf nods in silent assent.

“Well, easy enough fix, back in a ‘mo,” John says with a shrug, quickly rising to his feet.

Wilf opens his mouth to protest, but soon Rose is at her grandfather’s side, whispering something into his ear and gently patting the back of the older man’s armchair, motioning for him to sit down.

John jogs out to his car, opens the boot and grabs a wire with a coaxial coupler ( _mercifully_ he notices it has the RG6 connection he’s looking for, a convenience that will save him a _lot_ of time), a pair of side cutters, and a sautering iron, just in case. He comes back into the house and wordlessly sits cross-legged on the floor again, prying off the casing from the cable Wilf had been holding. He makes a series of small incisions into the coating of the wire, pulling it away and carefully peeling down the delicate copper braiding inside. He does the same with his own coaxial cable, before delicately prying the metal coupler off his own wire, and gently transferring the metal unit to touch the copper braiding on Wilf’s Sky box.

Wilf takes a seat in his favorite brown chair, leaning back and watching John at work.

“You seem quite handy, there,” says Wilf with a smile.

John shrugs nonchalantly — he’s proud to be skilled, of course he is — but this truly feels like the least he can do to help Wilf and Rose, who have been so kind to him.

“Grew up building my own electronics — built my own robot when I was fifteen,” he says proudly. “It was a little dog …” he trails off, lost for a moment in nostalgia.

“Anyway,” he says with a sniff, “I still like to tinker, I suppose. Works out well. Can’t get the university to replace hardly any equipment in our labs, so I upgrade most of it myself. It’s a hobby … built my own car, even.”

He looks over at Rose and finds her still looking at him, a thoughtful smile on her face, and he grins back at her.

The entire process takes under five minutes, and soon the telly and Sky box are connected and plugged in with John’s new connectors. Wilf reaches for his remote control to power them on, and the telly flares to life. John smiles graciously as Wilf thanks him, then his eyes flick to Rose. She holds his gaze, giving him a small smile, and his own grows bigger in response. They stay like that — not in awkward silence, rather a comfortable one — for several moments until Wilf’s voice breaks through.

“Need your key?”

John quickly turns around to face Wilf again, nodding yes.

Several minutes later, as John ascends the steps with his duffel bag in one hand and his Ski + Rock bag full of his ski attire in the other, Rose comes to stand at the bottom of stairs and softly clears her throat.

“I was going to head out … did you still want to see Weardale? I’ve got to go to the general store anyway. If you’re not too tired of driving, I was thinking we could take the snowmobile into town. There’s a pub that’s open for dinner if you’re hungry,” she says, then stops, her eyes a little hesitant, until his face breaks into a grin, then she smiles back, almost in relief.

“Sounds brilliant! Never been on a snowmobile before,” he says, taking the stairs two by two with new enthusiasm to drop his bags off before coming back downstairs to join her. Sure, he’d been originally planning on staying here for some of Wilf’s cooking — but a ride on a snowmobile sounds fantastic. And he _did_ want to see Weardale, his interest piqued from the memorabilia downstairs — Rose’s company would make that exploration even more insightful.

When he returns, she’s standing at the door, zipping up her pink ski jacket, and gives him yet another brilliant grin.

“Have fun, you two!” Wilf calls. “And Rose, don’t you dare sucker that poor boy at darts!”

Rose laughs, walking over to Wilf, smoothing his white hair back and kissing him on the forehead.

“G’nite gramps, and thanks,” she says, giving him a fond smile as she turns on her heel and heads out the door with John.

Wilf smiles for a moment after them as the door closes, then wriggles back in his easy chair for comfort, turns on the telly, and tries out his new Sky satellite box.

\--

The snowmobile is parked out front — a midnight blue contraption that looks to him like a riding lawnmower on skis. Not that he’s even ridden on one of _those,_ mind, living in the heart of the city and all. As she pulls on the clutch to start it, he thinks that it _sounds_ just like a riding lawnmower too. Ingenious invention, this, and he makes a note to himself to learn more about it. Rose reaches in to a compartment behind the main seat and pulls out two helmets — she tosses him a white one (which he grudgingly puts on, swallowing an apology to his hair) and puts the pink one on herself as she sits astride the snowmobile.

“Coming, then?” she smiles.

He swallows. He awkwardly straddles the snowmobile, sitting behind her, placing his arms tightly around her waist for support as the machine’s engine roars beneath them. All of a sudden, they’re off in a fast gust of snow and wind that cocoons their little snowmobile in a tiny cloud of misty frost and icy pebbles.

Somehow, _thankfully_ , Rose can see exactly where she’s going. At least, he hopes she can. She cuts a path through the trees, and soon they’re on a well-worn, snow-covered trail. It’s a thin trail, too narrow for his comfort, and is flanked on both sides by trees — conifers reaching out towards them with their stinging branches, and deciduous trees with their empty, leafless trunks leaning in their direction. They’re driving fast, the low tree branches whipping over their heads like tiny wooden swords, and he leans down a little more closely into Rose. His heart is in his stomach and it’s _wonderful_ , but terrifying.

Soon — almost too soon — Rose reaches an open field, and they head towards a cluster of several buildings. She pulls up in front of one of them, an old stone building with a wood-shingled roof, that already has several other snowmobiles and lorries parked outside. She comes to a stop gently, idles the snowmobile and removes her helmet.

She tosses her hair and he muses that her smile is brighter than the sun.

“So? Whaddaya think?” she says, her eyes playful.

He steps off the snowmobile, and his legs suddenly feel like jelly.

“Oh it was lovely …” he says, trying to not stumble over his feet, as well as over his words. “This is Weardale, I take it?”

She nods.

“This is Stout Point, it’s the local restaurant and pub,” she says, pointing at the building in front of them, and he doesn’t miss the way she says it’s _the_ restaurant, and not _one of the_ restaurants. “General store is down the street along with the post office and a few shops. There’s even a local mining museum, but it’s only open in the summer.”

He nods, gazing briefly at his surroundings as she puts their helmets back in the snowmobile’s center compartment and heads towards the door of Stout Point. He runs a hand through his hair reflexively and lopes behind her to catch up.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting as he heads inside — being the only local restaurant, he’s certainly not expecting it to be particularly nice, but he’s pleasantly surprised. The interior is reminiscent of a log cabin, with honey-colored timbers on the wall, floors and bar. There’s mining paraphernalia on the walls as well — pictures similar to those at the Prentice B&B, but also small pieces of mining equipment nailed onto the wall — lamps and helmets and picks. It’s neat, and homey, and spacious, and the restaurant area is nearly empty.

The bar area, however, is populated with several young men, all clustered around a television in the corner wall watching a football match. They all seem to recognize Rose, giving her quick, friendly hugs as she passes by. She briefly introduces John to them and he catches a few names — Mickey, Owen, Adam, Jimmy. John nods to them with a small wave, a gesture which seems to go largely unnoticed as they turn back towards the telly. Rose pulls a face and shrugs, then leads him over to a table in the quiet restaurant area. As he follows her, he gets the sense that someone is _looking_ at him, and he turns around, but finds all the young men apparently fixated on the telly. He shrugs inwardly and turns back to follow Rose.

Soon they’re settled at their table, each of them with an ale, and their dinner ordered.

“So, Rose Tyler,” John says, leaning slightly towards her and letting he syllables roll off his tongue, emboldened by the thick ale warmly filling his veins and belly. “Tell me about _you_.”

“Not much to tell,” she smiles almost nervously into her drink, flicking her eyes up to meet his. “I’ve lived here since I was born. Been skiing since I was old enough to walk, wanted to go pro but I hurt my knee, so that’s out. My folks are both gone now, Gramps is all I’ve got for family, really. I fill in now and then at Swinhope Moor when they need extra help, help out Gramps at the B&B, that’s about it.”

He means to ask about her parents, about her injury, about anything, really — but his mind latches on to the last thing she said, about simply ‘filling in’ places and his train of thought is out of his mouth like it’s on a high-speed rail.

"How on earth do you make a living like that?" he blurts, and _oh no_ , he can tell from how quickly her expression shuts down that he's been rude.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have —“

“No, it’s ok,” she says quickly, her smile still broad but not quite meeting her eyes, and she takes another sip of her drink.

He wishes he could reach out, rub that pretend smile off her face, and rub his words away while he was at it. He still hardly knows her, but he knows that her expression doesn’t suit her at all, and he feels a twinge of guilt that he’s the one who put it there. After a momentary pause, she opens her mouth again to speak.

 “I mean … I wish I _could_ do more, get out there a bit. Not one for uni though, I s’pose … never got a chance to go, and it’s not like I can do that anymore.”

He looks at her, eyebrows slightly furrowed. “Of course you can, you can do anything you want to. You can apply next year! Or take lessons in the spring, and enroll officially the next year.”

Rose shrugs, looking back down at her ale, almost ruefully.

“Nah … I haven’t even gotten my A-levels,” she says, still staring at her ale, and her voice is all of a sudden softer.

“You don’t need A-levels to get into some universities nowadays,” he says. “It’s _competitive_ , yes, but you have a lot going for yourself! You’re an instructor for one — and you’re freelance, correct? So you’re blazing your own trail, nothing’s standing in your way — it’s all you, taking on the world! _And_ you’ve managed to get a clientele despite living far from a city, _and_ without your parents. That’s _brilliant_ , Rose, truly.”

The words leave his mouth breathy and rushed — and although he would say _anything_ to make up for his previous remark, he finds as he says the words, that he really means them. She looks up for him, holding his gaze for a moment and smiles at him, a _genuine_ grin this time, and it warms him from within, his stomach flipping in gratitude that he could make her smile again after his rudeness.

“Besides,” he sniffs. “Won’t hurt if you have a highly esteemed, brilliant — quite undeniably _genius_ in fact — lecturer on your side putting in a good word for you.”

“Yeah? And who would that be?”

He smiles at her again as he takes a sip of his ale, and she smiles back.

“Genius, hmmm … but are you any good at _darts_ , John?”

He laughs, and she smiles wickedly — and he soon learns that the answer is a most definite, undeniable _no_.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bernard Cribbins actually was a Para (fun fact of the day, see I do my research!!!) That's one reason why this fic has been ridiculously fun to write. Also I should mention that pretty much all the players are finally in play in this fic for the most part, so the chessboard is set! And now the fun begins as we get to move the pieces around and see what happens - so that's another reason why this is kinda fun for me. I really really hope you enjoy it as well!!
> 
> * * *

After dinner, and after John’s defeat six times to Rose’s sniper-like markswoman-ship in darts, they leave the restaurant, waving a quick, casual goodbye to Mickey and Owen, the only remaining blokes at the bar, and getting a friendly wave in return. John is in good spirits, much better than he would normally be after being bested by someone at a game as _simple_ as darts, but he’s enjoying himself far too much to care.

As they step outside from the warm foyer of Stout Point into the chilled outdoors, Rose nods down the street to the right, telling John there’s more to see in that direction, and they head off, together. The sun is just starting to drop down towards the horizon, and the few old stone buildings lining their path cast their lonely shadows down towards the road. For such a quiet, empty street, it’s an oddly compelling sight, and it makes John almost want to slow down to appreciate its stark beauty. John and Rose’s breaths crystallize into tiny clouds around their faces, as their boots crunch and clomp at the snow under their feet, kicking it up into little white tufts with each step. The pair amble along the street together side by side, his hand almost touching hers until he realizes how close together they have been walking, and he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets.

“This is the museum,” Rose says, soon coming to a stop before an old stone house with somewhat small, dingy windows. “It’s closed for the winter, but they carry most of the brochures and history stuff about the area.”

John leans in towards the front windows, but the inside of the place is dark, and shielded with heavy closed curtains, so he is unable to peer in to see what kinds of items the museum carries. Instead, he looks at the placard inside the window, advertising local history about fluorite and lead mining, a local history tapestry weaving, a chapel, and genealogy resources.

“Genealogy …” he murmurs to himself, raising his eyebrows, not expecting that from a museum. Then again, he would hardly have expected a _tapestry_ from a museum, either.

Rose laughs. “Yeah, I ‘spose. Although I think most people who were born around here end up staying around here, so our family trees aren’t much of a mystery. Our great-grandparents all were locals here too — most of them were friends, so we already know all the old family stories. I think it’s more of a hobby for the owner.”

“Must be nice,” John muses, still looking at the window, not finding it nearly as kitschy as he thinks even Rose might. “I’m not even sure I know my great-grandparents _names_. Pretty sure they were all from London though, I think. _Well_ , maybe. Hard to say, really, and there’s no-one around to ask anymore.”

Rose looks up at him suddenly, eyes wide with empathy and hesitation.

“I’m so sorry — you mean your family —“

He shrugs, and Rose falls into silence to let him speak as he stands still, hands in his pockets, his eyes remaining fixed on the placard in the window.

“It was a long time ago,” he says in a casual voice, smooth with ease from long-practiced repetition. “It’s just me, now.”

Rose is quiet in response to this, and for a moment he wonders if she heard him at all. After a minute he turns his eyes from the placard, his gaze dropping down to meet her own, and finds her eyes full of silent understanding. It catches him by surprise and he swallows, looking away awkwardly, back towards the placard in the empty building.

“I know it’s not much but … I mean, you can come here whenever you want, you know,” she says quietly and quickly. “Me and gramps, it’s just us left, too.”

He smiles down at her, a genuine grin, and she blushes. All of a sudden _she_ seems to be the one looking awkwardly away, although a smile still lingers on her face.

“You’ve got a nice town here,” he says, changing the topic. “Nice change of pace from London.”

Rose shrugs nonchalantly, turning away and motioning towards the next building on the street, which appears to be a post office.  
“ _London_ though, it must be exciting!” she says. “I’ve only been once, it was pretty, though.”

John smiles to himself, thinking of the British Museum with its black siltstone obelisks of Nectanebo II and the Rosetta Stone, the Museum of London with its fragments of the Roman Empire’s London Wall, and the Victoria and Albert Museum’s examples of Donatello’s _rilievo schiacciato_. Weardale and its ridiculously small, semi-perpetually closed museum dedicated to the history of cheap fluorite and lead, featuring side-shows of geneaology and _tapestry weavings_ of all things truly can’t even compare. It’s nowhere near the same scale, and laughably ridiculous to even consider mentioning it in the same sentence as its betters. And yet … he still finds himself wishing it were open.

He turns away from the building, following Rose down the street.

\--

There _really_ isn’t very much open on the street — the museum is of course closed, the post office is closed, the petrol station is closed, and even the few other vehicles in front of Stout Point are nearly all gone by the time they reach the end of the block.

Rose shrugs, almost embarrassed, and turns around to face John.

“Well, that’s it really! Not much more around here,” she says, with a hesitant little laugh.

John shakes his head and smiles at her.

“It was nice to see, Rose. Thank you for being my tour guide.”

Rose points at one more building, another stone structure aptly named “Stone General Store,” and they go inside, the doorbell chiming their arrival as they enter the building. It’s a small store, with the wooden-plank floors that seem to be so popular in Weardale, stocked with a multitude of snack foods and groceries on one side of the premises, and hardware supplies on the other side. The front of the store is fully stocked with shovels and rock salt for sale — which is no surprise given the amount of snowfall Weardale seems to get. There is even seems a small area off to the side for camping and fishing supplies, and it makes John smile, as a childhood memory of fishing with his father flickers to his mind.

“Hi Bev!” Rose says in greeting to a middle-aged woman by the front counter, giving her a quick hug. “Just here for the usual stuff. This is my student, John — I’ve just been showing him around Weardale a bit.”

“Hello Rose!” Bev replies fondly. “And it’s nice to meet you, John! Oh, Rose - Jimmy was looking for you earlier, he wanted to know if you thought you might need help with that new satellite box. Said he could stop by if you need him to.”

“Nah thanks Bev, John here got it sorted for me, but thanks!” Rose says. “I saw Jimmy earlier over at Stout, he didn’t say anything about it, though!”

Bev shrugs and Rose grabs a basket, leading John down an aisle towards the refrigerators in the back of the store.

“Two cartons of milk, a dozen eggs … and do you still want bananas pancakes in the morning?” she asks.

John’s elated smile is all the response Rose needs, and she laughs, putting the bananas in her basket.

\--

The next day, John rises early and heads downstairs for breakfast. Once again, it’s just him and Wilf at the table, everyone else having already headed out. John feels strangely disappointed that he appears to have missed Rose, as he was hoping to start his lesson early. In the meantime, Wilf once again _insists_ of course on making John banana pancakes, and John is equally as insistent on helping him. The two men share a leisurely breakfast, Wilf regaling John with tales about leaving home to join the Parachute Regiment — “the Paras” — when he was in his teens just after World War II.

As they’re finishing their meal, Rose comes in the door, skis and boots perched over her shoulder. She sets them down, grabs a cup of coffee, and joins them at the table, listening to her grandfather’s stories with an amused smile on her face. John realizes that she’s probably heard these stories a hundred times growing up, but Wilf clearly delights in telling them, and John quite likes listening to them. He’d never gotten to know his own grandfathers, but he likes to think that if he had, that it might have been a little like this — sitting at a table, over a favourite breakfast, listening to well-worn stories over and over again.

After they finish the last of their breakfast, they begin to clear their plates from the table and Rose turns to John with a tentative smile.  
“I was wondering … do you want to try something new today? I know you say you were more interested in downhill skiing, but if you’re up for learning a little about cross-country skiing too, I thought we could try that today.”

John hesitates only momentarily. He has ten more weekends after this to not make a fool of himself in Chamonix, which is hardly any time at _all_ considering the level of skill he’s hoping to attain by that point. He’s barely learned _anything_ about skiing on slopes yet, other than how to fall inelegantly both when he’s trying, as well as when he’s _not_ trying. Ten more weeks may as well be tomorrow if he wastes any time — he has _no_ time to practice during the week in London, after all. His weekends up here in Weardale are short and precious, and meant to be fully invested towards Chamonix, but all the same …

“I’d love to,” he says, the words flowing from his mouth as naturally as the air from his lungs, and she smiles at him.

After he puts on his brand new skiwear Rose had helped him pick out, she helps him with his equipment, reminding him again to not fasten the wrist-strap on his ski pole because they will _definitely_ be going off-piste today. He notices that the skis and boots she’s picked out are slightly different from the ones he wore last week. These new skis are skinnier, and much longer than the ones he’d worn the previous weekend, and the boots attach to the skis only at the toe.

Being a physicist, of _course_ he notices another slight difference as well — unlike the smooth, sleek bottom of the downhill skis, the bottom of these skis seem to be imprinted with a tiny fish-scale pattern. His mind runs through the kinetics implications of this, as well as the effect on force and friction, and he mentions his finding to Rose, equations on the tip of his tongue —

“It’s for traction,” Rose replies simply, with a smile, as they take their first steps outside.

_Ah._

“Cross-country skiing is a lot like walking. Just keep your skis parallel and make sure to not lift up your feet,” Rose continues. “And then you just stride forward — like this!”

She demonstrates it for him, and as he attempts his first strides he’s happy to note that with this — _this!!_ — he seems to be quite a natural.

They start down the same path he recognizes from snowmobiling with Rose yesterday, following the tracks in the snow made not just from Rose’s snowmobile but from other skiers at the B&B. When they reach a clearing however, she turns, leading him down a new path of completely untrodden snow. It’s old snow from last week’s snowfall and is crunchy under their feet, a counterpoint to the click-clacking noise from their skis with each stride. It seems to be an old, unused trail by the look of it, and they continue on for some distance, John growing increasingly more comfortable with long strides and cross-balance of his hands and poles. He only wishes that _downhill_ skiing felt this natural to him.

After a while, the trail opens again to another clearing, and Rose slows down, turning away from the trail and seeming to hesitate momentarily. She takes a deep breath and looks at John.

"My dad used to work down at the mine," she says, pointing in the direction of a far-off dilapidated stone structure surrounded by the remnants of other stone buildings. "They shut it down the year I was born. He was trying to invent this pulley system, see, to make it more efficient so it would maybe cost less and the company would leave it open. A lot of people were gonna lose their jobs if it closed. But before he could try it, there was this accident and the mine flooded when they were all inside and ..." she trails off, shrugging a little too casually, gaze focused stonily and resolutely on the rocky crags in the background.

"Anyway," she resumes after a moment. "Gramps never wanted to leave after that. I guess I stay for him. I guess. I dunno. I don't want him to be by himself."

She shrugs. She looks so solitary, so _alone_ in that moment, standing out brightly against the forlorn rocky background in her hot pink ski suit. She drops her eyes and he's struck with an odd and sudden urge to take her hand. He doesn't, of course - it would be highly inappropriate, and plus she is wearing thick ski gloves, but even so...

"I wish I could have met him," he says, surprised that he _means_ it, and even more surprised at the almost tender tone that has crept unawares into his voice as he gazes at her.

She smiles at him. It's a gracious smile, a bright smile, and without even giving it another thought it makes him smile too. They stand there for a minute like that, before her eyes drop to the snow, her skis shuffling slightly on the ground.

Suddenly she looks up at him again, a small but mischievous smile on her face.

"C'mon," she says, cocking her head back in the direction of the B&B. "I'll race ya!"

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *

It’s not a _real_ race, of course — John knows that if she were trying, Rose would have beat him as effortlessly as she’d destroyed him in darts the previous night. Instead, it’s a friendly, brisk trek side-by-side back to the B &B, filled with banter and discussion about the multiple cross-country trails nearby. She tells him they can explore as many of these trails as he wants together, whenever he’d like, and he finds himself agreeing to it.

He reckons that he’s recently found himself agreeing to a _lot_ of things around Rose that wouldn’t normally interest him at all — learning about Weardale, for one, and even taking a tour of the town and finding he actually _liked_ it. And now cross-country skiing, which most _certainly_ is also not on his intended list of things to do. After all, it would seem a waste to not learn more about this style of skiing — this part of the country seems quite suited to it, after all — the gentle slopes of the hills and shallow valleys seem almost made for it. And he loves learning new things.

But … brilliant as he is, he doesn’t usually let himself get sidetracked from the mission at hand so easily.

He shrugs off the momentary flicker of worry that every weekend spent not practicing his downhill skiing is a wasted opportunity to impress Jeanne during their upcoming trip, suddenly realizing that truly, he has _no_ reason to panic at all. He’s brilliant, and he _certainly_ has the ability to learn _both_ downhill _and_ cross-country skiing, doesn’t he? Even though he’s only been cross-country skiing for a handful of hours now, and hadn’t planned on liking it at all, he found that he _does_ quite enjoy it — and he shouldn’t deny himself an activity he likes, should he? He doesn’t see the harm. Rose certainly has no objection to teaching him both, after all. Perhaps he just ought to relax about it all, and let things happen: Rose certainly hasn’t steered him wrong so far, and he finds he’s quite enjoying spending time with her and learning from her. He’s lucky to have found her, she’s truly an excellent instructor.

He glances over at Rose for a long moment, his eyes lingering on the healthy glow on her cheeks that suits her so well, and smiles at her, as she blushes back at him.

\--

Dinner consists of Wilf’s hearty, steaming variation on Black Sheep Ale and Steak Pie. Once again, the other guests are out-of-towners, a family of four, including two quite _active_ young boys and their parents, who had come up from Manchester to introduce their children to skiing. The boys, currently wriggling in their seats and fighting over who-gets-to-sit-next-to-mommy, have a lesson scheduled with Rose the next day, which disappoints John slightly, as he was hoping to have her to himself at least for a while before he drove back to London.

After dinner, the family declines Wilf’s offer of a drink in the sitting room. Instead, they quickly retire to their room for the night so that the boys can rest up for their ‘big day’ with Miss Rose, leaving a disastrous table in their wake. Peas are _everywhere_ , lined up like little soldiers on the border of the placemats, while several are squashed into the seat, and a few rebels are spotted on the floor as well. Rose gets a broom as Wilf offers John a bottle of the ale he had enjoyed last week.

John feels a bit awkward standing around, ale in hand, watching on the sidelines as Wilf and Rose clean up. He’s their guest — their _paying_ guest — but it feels a bit odd to just stand around doing nothing while the people with whom he is conversing are busy chasing rogue peas on the table. He momentarily puts down his ale in order to pick up his own plate and glass off the table, placing them into the kitchen sink, then returns to the dining area.

“Can I … help?” he asks, somewhat lamely.

“Nah, won’t take but a minute,” Rose says with a small grin. “But thank you.”

He nods and grabs his ale again, taking another sip. He _could_ retire to the sitting room — a drink in the sitting room was what Wilf had offered him, after all — but it would seem overly rude somehow to walk away without them as they work.

“Want to watch something on the Sky box? We wouldn’t have it if it weren’t for you,” Rose asks as she finishes wiping up the last of the peas from the table.

He sees she’s left one straggling pea on the table, hiding behind the centerpiece, and he picks it up, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. Rose breaks into a grin and takes it from him, dropping it into her napkin.

“You sure you don’t need to rest up extra for tomorrow?” he asks, raising an eyebrow questioningly and motioning his head towards the staircase the family had just climbed.

“Nah… kids might make a mess, but they aren’t much trouble to teach,” she says, biting back a laugh.

Suddenly her expression sobers a little, and she shrugs.

“Not as much as some of the adults, anyway.”

He’s ready to take this as a jest, a play insult, but there’s a frown in her eyes and something tells him that she’s serious, and that it’s not directed at him. He’s set to ask her about it, to find out what kinds of trouble she’s had in the past — she’s a pretty, young instructor and his eyes narrow slightly, almost protectively, as his mind races across a few potential scenarios he can imagine all too easily — when Wilf comes into the room and asks them if they’ve decided on what to watch yet.

They let John pick the show, which is well enough by him since — _unbelievably_ — neither Wilf nor Rose has seen his favorite program, about an alien who travels through time and space. Wilf watches the first episode with them amiably enough, then retires to bed a bit early, even for him, John thinks to himself. Rose stays with John, curling up on the opposite end of the sofa and listening — really _listening_ , he marvels — as he tells her about plot points and arcs, and repeatedly pauses the second — and third — episodes of show to explain throwbacks to the bygone years of the show from decades before. It’s fun for him to rewatch these, to share them with a new viewer, and it’s even _more_ fun when the viewer seems to have an intrinsic understanding of the feel of the show. He finds Rose is quite good at picking out characterization details, and he smiles at some of the insight she’s able to give, even after a single viewing of a handful of episodes.

After the fourth episode, even John can’t stifle a yawn.

It’s late, and he really should get an early start tomorrow to head back to London to prepare for Monday’s classes. He looks over at Rose to say good-night, only to find her eyes closed, her breathing even, with one of her hands tucked under her chin.

Something inside John softens at the sight, alternating with a small feeling of guilt that he may have kept her up too late, and he slowly rises from the sofa, cautious to not awaken her. He crouches next to the end of the sofa, by the same small antique chest Rose had opened last week, and quickly finds what he is looking for.

He carefully tucks the hot pink Snuggie around her, smiles gently, then tiptoes quietly up to bed.

\--

On Wednesday, Clyde comes to John’s office to work on the project John had given them, geophysics research on modeling short-term changes in wind patterns. The boys have worked out a schedule where, depending on their class schedules, one of them comes in every day to download readings from the national weather service’s Met Office website, and upload them into a database John has created. It’s tedious work, hundreds of readings across dozens of British cities every day, but the resultant analysis will give both Clyde and Luke authorship credits and a publication to their name by the time they graduate, which they will need if either of them decides to pursue advanced education.

This arrangement suits John just fine: his new office is half the size of his old one, but contains just as many books and bits and bobs, shoved into corners and piled high on top of each other. He sets up a computer for the boys in one corner, a small workstation surrounded by a perilously stacked collection of textbooks, and has his own workstation across the small office.

Clyde is hard at work copying down data, and John knows he _should_ be hard at work as well.

Instead, he minimizes the window for his grant proposal for additional funding on the project, and opens his web browser to the Cross Country Skier website where he’s been spending quite a lot of time this week. He’s learned a _fascinating_ amount of information within just the past few days, about a style of skiing he’d been only peripherally aware of before Rose introduced him to it. She’d promised to take him out again if he wanted, and he wonders if perhaps he can split his time between both cross-country _and_ downhill. He muses if there’s anywhere he might even be able to practice closer to London, then quickly dismisses the thought, as he’d quite like to keep Rose as an instructor.

A sudden knock at the door interrupts his thoughts, and he grins to see Jeanne standing there, the first time he’s seen her in more than a week.

“Hello, stranger,” she says playfully.

“Jeanne! Hello!” John says with a grin, rising to his feet and nearly knocking over several stacks of papers in the process.

“I feel like I’ve hardly seen you lately,” she says, a small pout forming on her lips. “So I thought I’d visit.”

She takes a step into the office and suddenly notices Clyde in the corner, staring up at her with wide eyes, doubtlessly never having seen one professor flirt so openly with another one before.

“Hello,” she says, smiling down at him. “I’m Dr. Poisson, French department.”

“Clyde,” he squeaks out. “Physics student.”

She nods politely then turns her attention back to John.

“I do have another reason for stopping by: I came by to ask you if you’ve booked your flight yet,” she says. “I was going to book a flight to Geneva, but there’s a one-day deal on British Airways for first-class seating on a flight to the Chambéry-Savoie aéroport.”

“Oooh that’s brilliant, and no, I hadn’t!” John says, turning to face his computer to search for the flight she’d mentioned. He navigates away from the Cross Country Skier website to look up flight prices for British Airways. He’s happy to see that the price for this flight is _definitely_ within his budget ( _that_ would have been embarrassing), and he smiles at her.

“Perfect,” she says, coming to stand behind him as he types, something which normally would have annoyed him — he highly values his privacy, after all — but it’s _Jeanne_ , and he finds he doesn’t mind at all. “Perhaps we can share a taxi to the resort?”

“Even more brilliant,” he replies, looking up at her fondly over his shoulder.

They don’t get a chance to share a moment, no lingering gaze passes between the two of them, before Clyde’s voice pops in almost out of nowhere.

“Are you going to a conference?” Clyde asks.

John’s head whips around and he begins to stutter out a response, but Jeanne beats him to it, smiling at the boy.

“No, for a weekend ski trip. Even your professors like to get away to have fun sometimes,” she tells Clyde with a wink.

Clyde blushes and looks back down at his workstation. John doesn’t miss the boy’s raised eyebrows. Jeanne apparently doesn’t miss it either, laughing quietly.

“I’ll book it then,” John says after a moment, filling the uncomfortable silence between Jeanne’s laughter and the tip-tapping of Clyde’s fingers on his keyboard.

“I’m glad,” she replies, her gaze soft, and there’s a long pause.

He gets the impression she would have said more had they been alone.

He suddenly feels slightly awkward and looks down at his desk — Clyde is still there, after all, no doubt listening with rapt attention to every word they are saying. And no doubt cataloging each word to report back to Luke.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she says after a moment, giving him a small wave and heading out the door.

He waves back at her, his hand remaining raised and his gaze staying focused on the door for a few moments after she steps out. He feels a pair of eyes on him and looks over at Clyde, whose eyes widen once again before diverting his full attention to intently focus on his work at the computer. John sighs and looks back at his own computer. He leaves the British Airways tab open to book his ticket later, but opens another tab on his web browser and once again navigates to the Cross Country Skier site.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *

That Friday, John once again sneaks off from work a bit early. It’s Luke’s turn in the office for data collection, and both he and Clyde have been so hard at work on the project, that John wishes them a nice weekend as he quickly ushers Luke out of his office, and tells the boy he’s letting him off early as a reward. The truth, however, is _slightly_ different. There’s an interdepartmental happy hour at the local pub for one of his colleagues who is getting married, and despite the fact that there’s a good chance Jeanne will be there, John wants to get up to the B&B in time for supper - Wilf had promised him a special meal tonight, a local Cumbrian entree called Cumberland sausage that John had never had before. Rose had heartily vouched for it, longingly rubbing her stomach at the mere mention of the dish and saying that her grandfather’s recipe was _brilliant -_ and John was more than willing to take her word for this and try it firsthand.

He loads his duffel bag into his car, as well as two new shopping bags from Ski + Rock, having been back to that skiing store twice this week already after reading online about useful skiing gear, and begins his journey back up to Weardale. The drive itself is easier than he expected: he’s gotten used to the country roads now, the gentle slope of the land as he heads north, the cloudy sky hanging low over the barren countryside like a soft wool blanket. As he drives further north, it begins to snow, billowy cotton-white flecks lazily drifting down from the sky to carpet the ground. John can’t help but think the snow will result in good skiing conditions this weekend: he wonders if Rose will think that the fresh snow will be more suitable for downhill or for cross-country skiing, and smiles, not particularly caring which one he practices this time.

\--

By the time John arrives, Wilf is already in the kitchen, hard at work on the sausage, and John wastes no time donning an apron and heading into the kitchen himself.

The Cumberland sausage looks _delicious -_ it’s a long, coiled, homemade sausage that looks vaguely reminiscent of a length of rope wound around itself, and it smells divine, like pork and bacon and nutmeg sizzling together headily on the grill before him. Despite not usually finding the time or the inclination to do anything more than heat up a frozen dinner for himself at home, John presses Wilf for the recipe. Wilf gladly shares this with John, and hands him a bowlful of raw potatoes and a knife to slice them for the meal, while Wilf grabs plates and silverware and heads off to set the table.

It’s pleasant, John thinks, as he and Wilf work side-by-side to make the meal - he never had anyone to teach him the particulars of cooking before, he’d always just learned on his own, experimenting with this-and-that in the same way he experimented while making so many of his electronics. His meals - much like his experiments - generally turned out well, which John chocks up to his general brilliance with tinkering. Still, it’s nice to truly _learn_ from someone, for once. Most of the time he doesn’t even bother to cook just for himself, and he can’t remember the last time he made something from scratch in his kitchen. But the grandfatherly older man has become quite a friend to John over the past couple of weekends (and has it _really_ only been that short a time he’s known Rose and Wilf?), and John is more than happy to help out with dinner.

As soon as the sausage and potatoes are finished cooking, the two men head out to the dining area, Wilf leading the way with the sausage balanced on a serving platter. As they reach the table, John notices with a slight amount of surprise that Wilf has only set two places … so not only does this likely mean that no other _guests_ will be joining them tonight, but also -

“Isn’t Rose coming?” John finds himself asking.

Wilf shakes his head as he sets the sausage down on the table, and John shrugs off a vague disappointment - Rose had seemed to like the dish, after all. It would be a shame for her to miss it.

“Nah, she’s up at Swinhope Moor tonight. It was her day teaching there, so it’s her job to close up the rental shop - she usually gets home late at night when she teaches, so I just save her a plate.”

“Is that safe for her, though?” John asks, slightly alarmed. “At night, with the snow falling like this? I could get my car and -”

Wilf smiles at him then, almost a knowing smile and John finds inexplicably finds himself slightly annoyed, wondering what the older man finds so amusing.

“She’s got the snowmobile, she’ll be fine.”

John nods, not quite convinced, but also not entirely comfortable under Wilf’s gaze, and both men dig into their dinner, which tastes even more delicious than it looks. After a few minutes, John asks Wilf more about his tour of duty with the parachute regiment in the 1940s, and Wilf spends the rest of the meal telling John about his postwar duties in British Malaya, the difficulties he faced from the power struggles between Britain’s attempted formation of the Malayan Union and the crown colony of Singapore, an untenable balance which eventually crumbled and led to the formation of Malaysia itself. As brilliant as he fancies himself with science, John’s education on history during his upbringing had focused more on the glories of the British Empire and not its slow but inevitable decline, be it in the coal and fluorite mines of Northern England or the _Istana Negara_ in Kuala Lumpur, and he listens intently to Wilf, enjoying every word of Wilf’s story as much as Wilf enjoys telling it.

–

Wilf is right, and Rose doesn’t arrive as they’re seated eating in the dining room, while they’re doing the dishes in the kitchen, or when they’re seated in the sitting room afterwards - Wilf in his old brown chair, John splayed out on the blue sofa. As Wilf heads to bed, exhausted from talking the night away with John over a few ales, John slowly makes his way upstairs as well to his bedroom.

Well, it’s not _his_ bedroom, per se, because he’s merely a paying guest here, but he’s ended up with this same room for both of his prior visits and is beginning to consider it his own, in a way. He wonders if Wilf and Rose think of it this way as well, and if that’s why they keep giving him the same room, then quickly dismisses the notion - he’s merely a guest, one of many they have on a weekly basis. They probably don’t spare it a thought at all.

John undresses quickly and steps into the shower … as usual, it feels delightful. He slips on his pajamas and crawls under the covers of his - well, _the -_ bed, grabbing his computer, intent on getting a little bit of work done before turning in for the night. He stifles a yawn and begins reviewing the data set that Luke and Clyde have been populating - which in turn causes him to stifle two more yawns, frightfully boring as the topic of differentials in weather patterns is.

Soon, in the distance, he hears the rumbling of a motor, and sees the reflection off his wall of two tiny beams of light, clearly from a set of headlights far too small to be from a car. The rumbling gets closer and closer, then stops completely when it sounds as if it’s just below his window.

With one last yawn, John closes his computer and clicks his bedside light off, soon falling to sleep.

–

The next morning, John heads downstairs to breakfast to find Rose setting the table. Smiling to himself, he comes to stand beside her, taking a pile of forks on the table and helping to set each one by the plates as Rose sets them, and after a brief greeting, they fall into companionable silence. After a leisurely meal (and John cannot _believe_ Rose had never tried banana pancakes before!), they head to the front foyer together as Wilf clears the table.

“I think the new powder will be excellent for downhill skiing today. I thought we’d take the snowmobile up to Swinhope Moor,” she says. “That will get you some downhill skiing practice today.”

John nods … no cross-country this weekend, he supposes, and though he _shouldn’t_ feel any disappointment about it, he feels the smallest twinge of regret. Silly, really … he should be practicing for Chamonix.

“We can go to the rental shop first and get your boots - ” she adds.

With this statement, John smiles and motions to Rose to hold on a minute - effectively interrupting her - and jogs upstairs. He returns a moment later with a huge smile on his face, and holds out one of the Ski + Rock bags he’d brought with him from London.

“No need! I bought my own boots this week!”

Rose looks over at him, and then at the bag, in surprise, and her face breaks out into a small smile.

“Well let’s see them, then!”

He opens the bag and proudly shows her his purchases. He knows he probably should have mentioned his plan to buy them to her - she’d been so much help choosing his ski clothes, after all, and he values her input - but he’d been reading all about ski brands in both _SKI_ magazine as well as the Cross Country Skier website, and there had been a sale at Ski + Rock and … he sighs. Try as he might to save money for Chamonix, there is a reason the amount in his bank account has never been reflective of his salary, and he supposes his tendency for impulse purchases (be they electronics or ski-gear, in this case) has quite a lot to do with that. _Oh well_ , he thinks, _nothing to be done for it._

Rose inspects the boots appreciatively.

“Nice choice … they fit well?”

“Oh yes,” he says. “Made sure the staff fit them as well as you fit the rentals my first weekend here. You’ve already spoiled me, Rose Tyler,  
and I’ll only take the best.”

She looks up at him warmly and he smiles back down at her.

“I bought goggles too!” he says, excitedly reaching into the bag. “Amber-tinted ones. I went for mid-tone amber because I wasn’t sure if it would be all blue skies this weekend or overcast, and well, amber’s an all-around good color for a lens anyway so -”

He interrupts his monologue, noticing that Rose is smiling softly up at him.

“Did you know that from physics? Studying light and all?” she asks.

He gazes at her momentarily … he _could_ say yes, spare himself the embarrassment of letting her know that even as a beginner who’s only been at this for three weeks, he’s spent most of his spare time recently guzzling down the particulars of ski magazines. Or he could tell her the truth, and hope she doesn’t find it so amusing that her gangly-limbed student who could barely stay upright during their last downhill skiing session would be becoming so invested in an activity he’s hardly any good at … let alone _why_ he’s chosen this activity in the first place - and there’s even _more_ embarrassment with that tangent. He’s not sure he likes either of those choices.

So instead, he shrugs, removing the price tag with his teeth before putting on the goggles and pulling a pose, modeling them for her.

“What do you think? Dashing, isn’t it?”

She laughs, and he gives her a little wink.

Rose grabs her skis and holds the door open for him as they head outside, making her way to the snowmobile. She crouches down onto the snow with her skis and pulls what looks like a bungee cord from her pocket, winding it around the base of the ski and looping it under the seat of the snowmobile and back again, securing it onto the machine.

“Are you sure? They could go flying off,” he says warily as she fastens them to the machine, one ski on each side, each one pointing backwards and slightly uptilted as if they were low-lying wings on the snowmobile.

She shrugs.

“Works well enough. It’s the only way to ride this thing if I want to bring my skis. If they fell off I could just pop off and go get them,” she says with a smile.

The angle with which her skis are fastened to the snowmobile makes it impossible for him to fit his feet as far back as he did the last time they rode together, nor put anything resembling space between them. Instead, he finds himself needing to scootch forward closer to her, pressing his torso firmly against her back and bracing his thighs solidly under her own in order to keep his balance.

She starts the machine, and almost immediately they are headed off, albeit in a different direction than the one they took to visit the town of Weardale. This time, Rose comes round the back of the B&B and veers off to a separate point entirely. They’re headed down a gentle slope now, nearly treeless except for a few stark, leafless trees standing like sentries, their branches dark and sharp like iron rods pointing up out of the snow.

Soon they’re cutting upwards again, the area noticeably more hilly than the almost plateau-like area Rose had taken him cross-country skiing last weekend. In the distance, John can see several more snow-coated hills, and skiers in the distance, coasting towards the bottom of each one. He notices with a smile that there are even two odd-looking ski lifts - they look nothing like the sleek aerial chairs and gondolas from his magazines or the Chamonix brochures, with seated skiers ready to stand up and hop off the lift at the top of the hill to race back down. No, instead _these_ ski _-_ lifts leave the skier standing on the hill, holding onto a T-shaped pulley to pull them back up to where they started. Rose momentarily idles the snowmobile, and looks back at John.

She follows his gaze and smiles, pointing to the lifts. “They’re called draglifts - they literally pull you back up the hill!”

Continuing on their journey, they ascend one more hill and John catches sight of a collection of wood cabins buildings clustered around a larger wood building and nods to himself, noticing the sign for _Swinhope Lodge_ , his original hotel destination. Not for the first time, he’s glad he ended up at the B&B instead - who knows if he would have gotten to know Rose and Wilf better if his first trip to Weardale had gone as planned.

As they continue past the cabins, John sees one more small, wooden building, at the top of must be more than a 100-metre drop. Several skiers are congregated outside, some apparently readying their skis and poles for a descent on the hill, others merely standing around in their ski boots socializing with each other and drinking cupfulls of something warm enough to steam into the air around their faces, with their skis propped up casually against a nearby guardrail. The sign outside announces _Swinhope Moor - Ski Weardale!,_ and as their snowmobile slowly pulls to a stop to the side of the building, several of the skiers turn to Rose and wave.

Rose dismounts from the snowmobile, waves back in greeting, and walks over to a small kiosk set up right outside the building. John recognizes the bloke at the kiosk - Mickey, wasn’t it? - and gives him a cheery little wave. Mickey in turn looks from Rose to John then back towards Rose with what can only be described as a little smirk. As Mickey reaches under the counter for the ski passes to give Rose, he says something to her - and though John can’t hear what Mickey said, Rose’s reaction is to reach over across the kiosk and give Mickey an almost-not-playful swat on the arm as he chuckles irreverently under her glare.

“What was all that about?” John asks her, when she returns moments later with the ski passes and a pair of rental skis for John.

Rose opens and shuts her mouth, as if there were something she were about to say but had thought the better of it. She looks away awkwardly with a slight blush creeping up her cheeks.

“Oh … Mickey? Just being an arse,” she says with a slightly forced giggle.

She hands him his ski pass, a sticker for him to affix to his jacket, and quickly leads him over to a nearby wooden bench to put on his skis, effectively ending the conversation. She then walks back to the snowmobile to begin the - what appears to John, at least - somewhat arduous task of untwining her own skis from the snowmobile to free them.

A moment later, she takes a seat beside him at the bench, and as he smiles over at her he notices someone looking at them (and _what is it_ with Weardale and feeling like people are staring at him, he wonders). He tosses a glance over his shoulder to find Mickey smiling at them with an overly large grin pasted onto his face. Rose notices this, sighs and shakes her head.

“Alright, c’mon!” she says, turning her back to Mickey.

She comes to a stand and holds out her hands for John - he takes them and she helps to hoist him upright. “We’ve got a lesson!”

She flashes him a grin and skis a bit ahead of him. As he pulls down his goggles, he notices out of the corner of his eye that Mickey is giving him a thumbs-up. As John waves back and turns around, he doesn’t notice Mickey shake his head and start to laugh, gazing after them.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated very much, thank you ... ! Thanks to foxmoon for the beta, and whoinwhoville for the lovely surprise banner

* * *

  
It never ceases to amaze him how quickly time passes during his lessons. They’re out on the hill for over an hour, the cold air biting against the apples of his cheeks in a way that would surely have driven him indoors any other time back home in London, and it doesn’t matter how many times he falls, or the inexplicable fact that he somehow manages to get snow inside his new goggles - he hasn’t laughed this much in longer than he can remember. He’s finding he loves to make her laugh as well - each time he flails his arms ineffectively to try to avoid yet another tumble, her laugh resonates all around them, seeming to warm the very air … and it makes him smile, too. All the other skiers are so focused on their speed, their techniques, and their tricks, and he and Rose seem to be the only people having this much fun on the slope - which somehow makes the entire experience even more hilarious in John’s view.

As they finally make it to the bottom of the hill, they trudge over to the “drag-lift” Rose had described during their ride over, which would bring them back to the top of the hill for another go. It’s an oddly-shaped piece of equipment, and looks like a large, metal upside-down T, attached to a long pulley that goes from the bottom to the top of the hill. Hardly an engineering marvel, really, he thinks, and the design itself looks simple enough to his eyes. As Rose comes to stand on one side of it, grabbing a hold of the central column and straddling one side of the T, he follows her lead, looping his own leg over the opposite side.

“Now whatever you do,” Rose instructs, “Don’t -”

… as she speaks, he sits down on the contraption, resting all his weight against it and they immediately go tumbling together to the ground.

It’s funny at first, like any other one of the falls he’s taken all day, and they lay sprawled in a pile, her shoulders shaking with laughter, their skis and legs intermingled, snow somehow stuffed down the back of his jacket, and everyone staring at them.

He stands up first as Rose still roils with laughter on the hard-packed snow ground, having gotten enough practice today falling and standing and falling again to have become rather comfortable with the procedure. Ever the gentleman, he holds out his hand to help her up as well. Smiling, she takes his offered hand, her glove gripping his own as he pulls her up - but as soon as she’s semi-upright she gasps, a sharp and pained intake of breath that he’s never heard her make before. Her smile fades into a grimace as she clutches his arm for support, both of his own arms instinctively locking around her waist to hold her up.

“Ouch,” she says, biting her lip with a wince. “Sorry … it’s just my knee.”

He’s immediately concerned, remembering last week when she’d mentioned a knee injury that had stopped her budding ski career, and his mind races, wondering what he should do. They’re still at the bottom of the hill, coated thick and deep with last night’s snowfall, and he can’t see a way to easily get her up to the lodge.

“I’m, oh god, I’m so sorry … Um, are you hurt badly?” he asks, guilt etched onto each word - this is his fault, and he knows it, even if he knows by now there’s no way she will blame him for it.

She shakes her head in a silent no and gives him a reassuring little grin, which only makes him feel marginally better, and she keeps a firm hold on his arm for support with one hand as she rubs her leg with the other. His arm instinctively moves tighter around her waist, drawing her closer against himself as he peers around, from left to right, his stomach quickening with guilt at the knowledge that he’s unintentionally done something colossally stupid and hurt her. He not only needs to fix this, to make sure she’s alright - he wants to. He’s about to ask one of the passing skiers for help when he hears a male voice, gentle and low, right behind them.

“It’s OK, I’ve got you,” the young man says softly, roping his arm around Rose’s waist, and John’s arm falls away.

“We were just -” John starts to explain, not quite knowing why he’s trying to explain anything at all.

“Yeah. I saw you.”

John’s happy for the help of course, he only wants to bring Rose to safety and ensure she’s not too badly injured, but there’s something unspoken lurking in the young man’s clipped tone to which he can’t help taking offense. The young man helps Rose to the ground as gently as possible, unfastening her skis with care before sitting back and looking into her face, concern obvious on his own.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” Rose says with a grateful smile, and Jimmy smiles back at her. “Just a little twist, I think. Nothing too bad.”

“Think you can put weight on it?” Jimmy asks, looking intently at her.

She nods and Jimmy takes her hands in his own, slowly easing her up to her feet in a practiced motion. It takes Rose a moment, but she’s able to put some weight on her knee, much to John’s relief. Jimmy smiles at her, but her first look is towards John, as if to reassure him that she’ll be fine.

“Let’s head up,” Jimmy says, securing his arm once again around her waist.

Just as Jimmy starts to turn away towards the slope, his arm still looped around Rose like it’s the most natural thing in the world - and completely ignoring John’s presence - John finds his voice breaking through the crisp morning air, almost despite himself, shattering the silence as if it were a pane of glass.

“Can I help?” he asks.

To John, his own question feels strange, like it’s an unwanted interjection where instead he should naturally have a role - he’s been out here all morning with Rose, after all, and of course he’s bloody well concerned for her welfare. He hates just standing there, wanting to assist Rose - wonderful Rose, who’s been nothing but lovely and thoughtful to him these past few weeks. But instead, while she’s hurting, he’s relegated to doing nothing but holding onto his ski poles ineffectively as the snow in his jacket melts uncomfortably against his neck, and although his words are an attempt to stem the awkwardness, they seem to only pile on further discomfort, judging by the look this offer gets from Jimmy.

“I think you’ve done enough,” Jimmy says.

Something icy settles in John’s stomach with those words, but Rose’s head snaps up before he can react.

“Hey now, it wasn’t his fault. If anything it was mine, I didn’t tell-” her face contorts in a momentary grimace as she comes to a full standing position, and John instinctively takes a protective step towards her.

“- I didn’t warn him about the lift,” she finishes.

“Fine. Carry her skis then.”

Jimmy doesn’t spare a glance for John over his shoulder as he begins to trudge back up the hill, Rose leaning against him for support. She stops and tosses a glance back over her shoulder at John, trying to hide her slight wince and failing badly.

“You ok, John?” she asks, managing a small grin.

John nods back at her, a tight smile on his face. He notices Jimmy looking at him then as well, the chill in his gaze rivaling that of the air, and John ignores it, flicking his eyes back to Rose. He can’t quite explain the whim that comes over him, but he flashes her his most brilliant grin, the one that’s had her laughing and smiling brightly back at him all morning long, and nods at her, throwing in a little wink for good measure. She relaxes, smiling widely back at him, and as Jimmy turns away again to lead Rose back up the hill, John stands watching them for a long moment, before gathering Rose’s skis and trudging back up the hill behind them.

\--

Jimmy may be a complete arse, in John’s opinion, but he nonetheless is painstakingly careful as he navigates his way up the slope with Rose until they reach the top, letting her lean on him and taking as many breaks on the way up as she needs. As soon as they enter the lodge, Jimmy settles Rose down onto a sofa in the back office, his hands lingering quite unnecessarily over her knee to massage out any residual pain, and John inwardly rolls his eyes at the fact that this rude young man is so obviously desperate for Rose’s attention. He’s not sure why that grates on him as much as it does.

John supposes that some young women might find this kind of bloke handsome - dark, wavy hair running a bit long (and quite shaggy), piercing blue eyes - but he’s far too young, and far too surly for any of that to matter. He hope that Rose - for her own sake - can see that, too. She’s kind and well … she’s attractive … and clearly, she can do far better.

After a minute, Jimmy gives Rose’s hand a little squeeze.

“I should get back to teaching my students - can’t leave ‘em alone for too long out there, or those kids’ll start throwing snowballs at all the skiers again just for fun. Will you be ok for a bit?”

Rose nods.

“Thanks, mate,” she says, leaning in to give Jimmy a quick, friendly hug as he leaves the lodge, not even sparing a glance for John on his way out the door.

As soon as they’re alone, Rose sighs and leans back against the sofa, resigned, taking off her gloves. She’s worrying at her lower lip like something is bothering her, and John’s stomach churns at the idea that it could be him. He’s not quite sure why that bothers him, why the thought that — maybe — she’s upset with him makes him feel like he just swallowed a piece of lead. He stands mutely off to the side and simply watches her, his face a mask, until she finally opens her mouth to speak.

“I’m sorry … I think I’m probably out of commission for the rest of the day,” she says sadly. “I could set you up with someone else today, I’m really sorry -”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he interrupts softly, yet urgently, and her eyes flick up towards his. “And I’m the one who should be saying I’m sorry.”

The smile fades off her face and she shakes her head, looking back down at her gloves.

“Don’t be. It was my fault, I should have told you before we got on the lift, it’s not like you’ve ever used one before … and besides, it’s not the first time I’ve twisted it. My tendons aren’t strong in that knee anymore, it happens every so often,” she says with a self-deprecating little shrug.

He looks back at her for a long, silent moment and finally nods solemnly, his gaze then breaking from her own.

There are not many other places to sit in the office, and it’s clear to him they’re going to be here for quite a while, so John leans against a nearby desk instead, removing his hat, jacket and gloves, and tossing them into an unceremonious little pile on the floor. Rose looks at up him and smiles, gently maneuvering herself so as to leave a bit more space on the other side of the sofa, and motions for him to sit down. He takes a seat, plopping himself down on the opposite end of the sofa from her.

“I’m sorry your lesson got cut short,” she says. “It’ll be free today, of course.”

He shrugs, looking over at her with a genuine smile.

“Please, don’t bother, it’s alright,” he says. “I’m just glad you’re OK.”

“Do you want to go back to the B&B?” she asks hesitantly, smiling back at him. “I need to rest a bit, but I could get someone to give you a lift in the meantime.”

He shakes his head and settles in further down into his seat on the sofa, looking around the small room. Besides the sofa, the desk, and a chair, the space is hardly furnished at all except for a bulletin board advertising various services, equipment suppliers, and even a few local events.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she says after a moment, following his gaze to the flyers covering the wall, and points at the one in the middle. “That ice sculpting festival, three weekends from now - my treat, since you don’t want your money back for today. They have ice chess where you actually are the pieces on the board, and a graffiti wall where you can carve anything you want — and it’s always a lot of fun - whaddaya say?”

“Rose, you don’t need to -”

“I want to,” she insists, giving him a playful smack on the arm.

He rubs his arm in a mock display of pain, and grumbles about how there are now two injured parties today, then notices that she looks a little uncertain, her smile fading slightly - it’s only then he realizes that he hadn’t yet answered her question.

“I’d love to - that’d be brilliant,” he says, giving her a warm smile.

Her smile broadens, and her gaze lingers on him for a moment. He swallows and looks away momentarily, beginning to feel a little restless. Suddenly, he reaches into his jacket pocket, brandishing a deck of cards, and holds them up for her to see, with a sly grin.

“You keep a deck of cards in your jacket?” she laughs.

“Oh Rose Tyler, I keep everything in my jacket!”

She laughs, and he winks, and they begin to play.

–

She beats him in poker eight times before she feels well enough to ride back to the B&B.

She’d called ahead to Wilf, of course, to let him know she’d be delayed, and although he had seemed very concerned on the phone, by the time they get back he simply gives his granddaughter a big hug and a soft smile, with a gaze that looks almost sad. Wilf makes her promise they’ll talk later about her injury, which John takes to mean that it will be a private discussion, and Rose gives a long sigh in response.

After dinner, John helps her up the stairs to her room, his arm around her waist, and hers wrapped tightly around his as well. He brings her to her doorway and smiles at her.

“I’m glad you’re ok,” he says, as she thanks him for his help.

He leans in to give her a little hug then - it’s brief, and completely spur of the moment, but it feels natural, especially considering how much time he’s spent already with his arm around her for the past few minutes as he helped her up the stairs. Her arms come up to enfold him briefly as well, and after a quick squeeze, they part.

“Goodnight, Rose,” he says, giving her one last grin as he heads back down the hall.

“Gnite John,” she responds, and before entering her own room, she stares after him just a moment longer, giving him a little wave and smile as he turns to enter his room.

\--

Just before bed, he pulls out his laptop one more time and checks his email. He yawns as he scrolls past faculty announcements and emails from students, but stops, smiling to himself when he sees an email from Jeanne. He opens it, and his smile widens. It’s an invitation for both him and a few other faculty members to attend an art exhibition at The Natural History Museum in a few weeks’ time. But, then he sees that the actual day for this is on a Saturday … one of his Weardale Saturdays, as he’s coming to think of them. More specifically, and if his memory is correct (which it always is), it’s the same day as the ice festival Rose had promised to take him to.

He stares at the screen for a moment, almost pensive, and then begins to type his reply to Jeanne.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to foxmoon/fadewithfury for the beta! Feedback is very welcome! =)
> 
> * * *

He looks long and hard at the response he’s written, at the single word - “sure” - staring back at him in stark black and white, the cursor blinking back uncertainly at him on the screen. This is _Jeanne_ of all people asking him to the event - and he _wants_ to go with her, of course he does, there’s no question in his mind about that. He barely sees her at work anymore, and it’s brilliant that she thought to invite him - that she _wants_ him there with her. And his entire focus these past few weeks has been invested in skiing in order to bring him closer to her, after all, hasn’t it? Oh, he’s made a few detours into cross-country skiing and snowmobiling and local tourism of course, but still - he’s only here because of her, isn’t he? And judging by the time-stamp on the message, _technically_ she even asked before Rose asked him, so really, it would be quite rude of him to say no. And although something inside him twists slightly at the thought of canceling his plan with Rose … surely Rose wouldn’t care _that_ much, would she? She even said herself that she was inviting him as compensation for the missed lesson, after all - Rose was simply trying to do him a favor by inviting him to the ice festival in the first place.

He pauses for a moment, wonders what he’s waiting for, then finally clicks send, sighing heavily. It takes a while for the email to go through, and he wonders if perhaps he should have written something longer, or more enthusiastic, if Jeanne might read something into this that he didn’t intend. His response to her email about Chamonix after all had been almost embarrassing in its wordiness and emoticons, he’d been as giddy as a child to receive her invitation. This is _Jeanne_ after all, and he wants to spend time with her, he really does, but ...

He frowns slightly, thinking of the uncertainty in Rose’s eyes when he didn’t respond right away to her offer, of how enthusiastic she seemed about the ice festival, how much she clearly thought he’d like it. He hopes she doesn’t mind … after all, this is more _him_ losing out on going to the ice festival than anything else. He certainly doesn’t want to presume that the excitement in her eyes when she spoke of the festival had anything to do with the fact that he’d agreed to go with her. She made it seem like she goes quite often, after all … she enjoys it, she’d go and have a wonderful time whether or not he’s there.

Right then. It’s settled. He’ll tell Rose tomorrow.

He clicks off his bedside light and goes to sleep.  
\--

The next morning, John awakens to sunlight streaming in through his window and pouring itself comfortably across his bed like a warm winter quilt. Although he’d be normally content to rouse slowly from this little cocoon, his first thought is to go find Rose, and he stretches himself awake, wondering if her knee is feeling better today, and hoping that she doesn’t have to cancel any additional ski lessons today on his behalf. After a quick shower made all the more brief because he wants to check on her, he packs up his duffel bag and ski gear, and heads downstairs. As soon as he arrives in the lobby, he looks around for Rose, but she’s nowhere in sight - a common enough occurrence here at the B&B, but still a disappointment. Walking to the frost-covered window, he gently opens the rustic curtains, and notices the snowmobile is gone from its usual spot. He feels a small wave of relief wash over him - it’s _good_ that she’s feeling well enough to head out this morning, that his blunder yesterday didn’t cause her any real damage.

John finds Wilf in the kitchen making a traditional Durham County breakfast called ‘bacon floddies’, and John dons an apron as is quickly becoming his custom here and steps in to help. Side by side, they grate potatoes and stir eggs and chop up bacon, making them into small patties as Wilf gives John an impromptu lesson on how hot to heat the stove and how to shake the old iron griddle over the heat so that the eggs don’t stick to the bottom. The griddle is heavy in John’s hand, and the wrought iron handle feels rough against his fingers - it’s clearly an ancient contraption, and John smiles to himself, at the thought of something so old and rugged lasting generations and still being of good use in this day and age.

“Rose is feeling better, I take it?” John asks as the floddies sizzle in front of him, filling the air with the aroma of bacon and eggs and warmth.

Wilf moves past John to head over towards the sink, his only response a small shrug, and it strikes John that this is the only time he’s seen Wilf fall silent on a topic of interest to him.

“She always does after a good night’s rest,” Wilf finally says, his tone casual, and at odds with the vigor with which he is suddenly scrubbing the dishes. “Still, I told her she should cancel her lesson this afternoon, not that she listened.”

A small wave of guilt washes over John, and he puts down the griddle, turning to face his new … well, his new _friend_ , as he’s honestly starting to consider Wilf. He’s not sure of what to say, not sure if Wilf blames him for Rose’s injury on the slopes yesterday. Despite Rose’s words to the contrary, John still blames himself … and the thought suddenly strikes him that perhaps _that’s_ the reason Jimmy’s words so instinctively rubbed him the wrong way - that perhaps the young man saw in John exactly what John thought of himself.

“I’m so sorry, Wilf,” John says quietly, “Yesterday was all my fault. I never meant to -”

Wilf shakes his head, interrupting him.

“No, it’s not your fault. It’s the second time she’s twisted it this season,” Wilf says quietly. “Her doctor promises she’s fine, but she’s only twenty… And she’s already pushed her body so far. I just worry…”

Wilf breaks off his statement, sighing again. John stands still, silently watching Wilf, somehow instinctively knowing that the older man had more he wanted to say. After a moment, Wilf shuts off the faucet and dries his hands, then looks over at John to meet his eyes.

“She told me you said you’d put in a good word for her. To get into a university.”

John stares at Wilf for a moment, a bit surprised - of course he remembers the conversation with Rose clearly from last week. Still, he hadn’t really considered it was something she might actually want to _do_ \- he’d just hated the thought of her limiting herself, and thinking that she _couldn’t_ do something. It’s amazing how much she’s been able to build herself a life without money, a family, or university, all by the age of 20 - _she’s_ brilliant, and any university would be lucky to have her. He’d meant every word he’d said about her being able to take on the world, and of course he’d help her apply. He wants to, and she deserves a chance - there’s no question in his mind about it at all.

“I will - if that’s what she wants,” John says.

Wilf doesn’t speak any words in reply, but rather stares at John a moment longer, a small, almost relieved smile creeping onto his face. He then nods his head decisively and looks thoughtfully off into the distance as he grabs a dish towel and begins to dry the dishes.

\--  
Rose joins them at the tail end of breakfast, interrupting what had been a very vigorous debate about the merits of cooking with ceramic vs. cast iron pans. The two men sit at the table, their breakfast and coffee all but abandoned, so engrossed in their conversation that her presence isn’t noticed by either of them until she walks up to pour herself a cup of tea. She plops herself down in the high-backed, wooden chair with ease, drawing her knees up casually and sitting with her legs criss-crossed in the chair. John smiles to himself as he notices the grace and ease with which Rose is moving - she’s clearly feeling much better than she was yesterday.

“Food doesn’t taste as good unless it browns properly, and the heat distribution is best with cast iron!”

“I’m not saying _you_ should use ceramic, Wilf, they’re just so much greener!”

“Rose! What do _you_ think?” Wilf says, and both men turn around to face her, expectant.

“I think…” she hesitates, looking from one to the other from behind her cup of tea. “I think – oooh you made floddies!! … but … Oi! You didn’t save any for me!” she says in mock annoyance, glaring at the empty platter.

Without missing a beat, John slides his plate over to her, where a single floddie remains intact and undisturbed off to the side, then resumes his vigorous defense of the merits of ceramic. She smiles at him, a slow, almost bashful smile, and he gives her a wink and turns back to Wilf, expounding on the ease of dishwashing as she picks up the floddie and chews it thoughtfully.

–

The debate exhausts itself soon thereafter, and Wilf insists on clearing the plates from the table himself so that John can finish his coffee. Rose stays seated at the table as well, nursing a cup of tea, as they sit in companionable silence, the distant clank of the dishes and running water in the kitchen being the only sound. John downs the last of his now tepid coffee with a gulp then turns in his chair to face Rose, his eyes meeting hers.

“You’re feeling better?” he asks softly.

She nods and smiles at him, and he smiles back, relief easing away the remaining guilt he felt over their mishap.

“Much better, thanks,” she says. “Are you … are you going to leave this morning? I know you usually leave early, but I … I just didn’t know if you wanted to make up your lesson today -”

He shakes his head and notices that her face falls slightly.

“You should rest,” he says.

“I’m _fine_ -”

“Rose,” he says, her name rolling slowly off his tongue as he leans forward towards her, meeting and holding her gaze. “Rest. _Please_ promise me you’ll rest. Just for today.”

She pauses for a moment, staring back at him, her eyes seeming to search his, then takes a deep breath and nods. Her eyes drop from his then to linger on the table, as if she’s lost in thought, and it strikes him that there’s something almost forlorn about her expression. Somehow, almost instinctively, he feels an urge to comfort her, and he leans towards her, smiling at her. He feels her squeeze his hand, and it’s only then, with a small jolt, that he realizes that his hand had come to rest on hers, seemingly of its own volition, and that his fingers were in the process of squeezing hers back.

He clears his throat and slips his hand from hers awkwardly. He rises from the table then, his gaze falling on his multiple bags by the door. His duffel bag sits alongside the Snow + Rock shopping backs, his new ski gear stuffed haphazardly back inside the latter, as he’d long since given up trying to fit it in as neatly as it fit when he bought it.

“I suppose I should get going,” he says, motioning to his bags.

Rose nods, rising slowly from the table to head over to the registration desk. She glances at his luggage, in particular at the myriad of gear poking out from the shopping bags, and her eyes flick up to meet his.

“If you don’t need your ski gear back in London … you can leave it here,” she says, her eyes a bit hesitant. “If you want.”

“Is that OK - I mean, wouldn’t you need the room for guests during the week?” he asks.

She shakes her head quickly, the silky strands of her blond hair dancing with the motion, as she ducks her head to look back down at John’s checkout paperwork on the registration desk.

“No, most of our guests are weekend stays, and, well, that’s pretty much your room now for as long as you come up here, so I just thought that maybe -”

“That’d be lovely,” he says softly, with a smile in his eyes, and as soon as he speaks, she looks back up at him, smiling as well.

After a moment, her eyes break from his own, and she leans over the desk to hand him his receipt.

“I’ll see you next week then?” she says, stuffing her hands in her pockets and coming out to the front of the registration desk.

He gives her a bright grin.

“Absolutely.”

She smiles then, a wide smile that makes her pretty brown eyes crinkle at the sides, and takes a step forward, giving him a quick hug before stepping away. He hugs her back with an affectionate squeeze and smiles to himself. He’s relieved now - he’s glad that she feels better, than she’ll rest today - that he didn’t really hurt her. He runs back up to his room to drop off the bags, then heads downstairs again to hand her the room key.

“Keep it,” she says, shaking her head and laughing. “All your stuff is in there!”

He gives her one last grin, then shoves his duffel bag into the passenger seat of his car and climbs inside, ready to start the long trek back to London. She stands in the doorway and he waves to her as he starts the ignition - _well_ , as he _tries_ to start the ignition, at any rate. He pretends to not notice her surprised giggle as he removes the mallet from underneath his seat to give the clutch a good whack to get it in motion. With one final wave to her, he eases his car out of the driveway and back onto the main road, and Rose finally slips out of his sight in his rearview mirror.

He travels several uneventful kilometers, humming to himself, and is nearly to the A1 before he realizes that he forgot to tell Rose he wouldn’t be going to the festival.  
 

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks to fadewithfury/foxmoon for the beta, and feedback is super appreciated!! =)
> 
> * * *

“So,” Jack says. “How are your lessons going?”

“Fine.” John takes a long swig of his ale and nods for emphasis. He spins the slightly damp paper coaster around on the counter-top with the tip of his finger, stopping only as it begins to tear under the friction of the motion.

They sit at the bar in the little-known off-campus pub they often frequented while at uni together. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in the near-month since John started his lessons, and John normally looks forward to these outings with Jack, and to their easy, cavalier conversations. Tonight however, he finds that skiing is the last thing he wants to discuss - which is particularly unfortunate, as this seems to be the main topic of interest to Jack.

“Just fine? Come on, you were over the moon about Chamonix. Is it too difficult?” Jack asks.

“No, not too difficult,” John says. He can’t blame Jack for pressing the topic. Last time they had spoken, _weeks_ ago, John was eager to get started — an update was of course to be expected.

Jack’s still the only one who actually knows for a fact that John is taking lessons - John wonders however if Clyde and Luke might know, thanks to a receipt from Swinhope Moor for his lessons with Rose he’d accidentally left mixed in with the data he’d brought back from Weardale last week. His plan had been to keep the entire excursion secret lest Jeanne of all people find out, but now …

“What have you learned?”

John shrugs, noncommittal, and leans forward to rest his elbows on the shiny mahogany of the counter, staring into the frothy amber of his ale.

“This and that. Bit of downhill, bit of cross-country. Rose is a good teacher.”

“… _Rose?_ ” Jack says, with a chuckle, sipping his drink and giving John a sidelong glance.

From anyone else, this would have sounded like an innocent confirmation of interest, and quite polite, even - John wouldn’t have even thought twice about it. But John knows his friend too well - there’s something about Jack’s slight eyebrow raise and the smirk in his voice that suddenly and inexplicably causes John’s jaw to clench.

“That’s her name - do you suggest I call her something else?”

He means to sound casual, almost flippant, but even to his own ears it’s a quite a bit snippier than he intended.

“Whoa, easy there. Just teasing you.”

John opens his mouth as if to respond, and whether it will come out as a warning or an apology he’s not sure, but instead he merely sighs. He feels Jack’s eyes on him, curious and maybe slightly concerned, but doesn’t turn around to meet his glance. Instead, he turns back to his beverage and draws a long swig of the remainder to avoid further questions.

Not that Jack’s questions are really the problem - John knows better, even after several ales. The truth is, he wishes he had simply been able to _tell_ Rose that he couldn’t go to the ice festival with her. It has been lingering on his mind all week, much more than he was expecting it to. It’s ridiculous, really, how much he’s been thinking about this, and he doubts _she’ll_ even care that he can’t go. He momentarily wonders if he should call her, and then quickly dismisses the thought - he doesn’t want to make a thing of it, and surely it’s not a big enough deal for her that it can’t wait until he sees her next. He’s not quite sure why it bothers him so much - _wellll_ , that’s not exactly true, and it compounds his frustration that he’s clearly even attempting to be disingenuous with himself inside his own head. She’s been marvelous, and incredibly kind to him. She’s become a friend to him - one of the few he feels like he has - and he dislikes feeling like he’s somehow doing _wrong_ by her, or being dishonest with her. And the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he _has_ been, hasn’t he, in a way? Surely the reasons he’s taking lessons at all are his own private business, but as both his new friend and his teacher, perhaps Rose ought to know, shouldn’t she? He was initially embarrassed about admitting his reasons for his lessons, but now that they know each other better, would it really be so bad to tell her about everything, really, about Chamonix, about Jeanne -

The thought causes an inexplicable twist of tension in John’s stomach. If he tells Rose he has to cancel his plans with her because of Jeanne, this would naturally lead to a conversation about Jeanne and Chamonix. Rose would obviously understand if he told her about Jeanne, wouldn’t she? She’s been so empathetic — _would_ she understand? Or maybe she wouldn’t — maybe she’d be upset that he hadn’t told her before. Not that there’s a _reason_ for her to get upset, they’ve only just become friends. But Chamonix — and Jeanne — is what all of their lessons together are based on, isn’t it? So it would certainly make things simpler if he could explain _why_ he’s been taking lessons — he wouldn’t have to hide that fact — not that he’s been _hiding_ it exactly, merely withholding it. But would she see it that way? He looks down at the counter, at the remnants of his paper coaster now torn to shreds … he must have been mindlessly ripping it all this time and he didn’t even realize … funny, that —

John’s startled out of his reverie by the soft sound of someone clearing their throat behind him, and Jack’s amused laughter. He turns around instinctively, the familiarity of the sound making something clench uncomfortably inside him, and his gaze meets a pair of beautiful blue eyes he knows oh so well. He hadn’t heard her even come up behind him.

“Jeanne! What -”

“You were in your own world there,” she says with a flirtatious smile. “Welcome back, we missed you.”

She leans down and gives John a lingering peck on the cheek, then walks over to Jack with a big smile as he enfolds her into a friendly hug.

“I - I didn’t see you there,” John says. “What are - I … I didn’t know you came here!”

John tenses, his mind racing, wondering if she overheard his conversation with Jack, wonders if she heard anything about his lessons - about _Rose_ \- and if she thinks him a fool, but she gives him a brilliant grin as she sits down on the stool next to his own. Her knee rests briefly against his, the warmth of her thigh palpable even through his trousers, and she leisurely crosses her long legs. After a moment, he relaxes.

“Lovely to see you,” John adds quickly, as Jeanne smiles back at him.

“We just finished a research project,” she says. “They wanted to come here to celebrate - oh! That reminds me. John, I’m sorry - I have to cancel our plan for the art exhibition. My mum’s having a small procedure done that week, and she’ll need me -”

She turns towards him, eyes gentle and apologetic, her hand coming to lightly rest on his arm as she speaks. He can’t explain it even in his own mind, but he breathes a sigh at her words, feeling like the knot is unraveling inside him, even as he’s vaguely aware that perhaps he _should_ be feeling disappointed. His first thought is of Rose, and it’s a relief, really - that his thoughts have been tangled up over something that will no longer be an issue at all.

“It’s fine,” he says quickly, nodding. “We can see it any time, really - on a weekday after work, perhaps?”

“That would be lovely,” she says.

“And … your mother? Is — is she going to be alright?”

“Oh yes! It’s just cataracts. The procedure is simple enough, but her doctor says I’ll need to drive her around for a week or so afterwards.”

“Good … good. Glad to hear it’s not serious. She’s lucky to have you,” he says, giving her a gentle smile.

Jeanne returns his grin, soft and slow, her hand still on his arm, giving him a small squeeze.

“I should be getting back to my group now — I’ll see you later, then?”

John nods back at her, giving her a small wave as she turns to depart. As she walks away back to her table, her high heels click-clacking on the floor with every graceful stride, John’s eyes only follow her for a brief moment, and then turn back to Jack, who is staring back at him, a sly grin on his face. This time, John lets himself smile in return, and Jack chuckles, elbowing John in the ribs.

“See? That’s all you needed - she put you in a better mood, didn’t she?”

John nods back at his friend, and the smile drifts off his face as he flags down the bartender for another ale.

“Yeah.”

–

The next few weeks race by in somewhat of a blur, as John makes the trek from London to Weardale and back again. He feels better about things now, that he won’t have to cancel plans with Rose, and he’s becoming comfortable and confident in this dance between his weekdays and weekends. He feels like he’s fallen into sync with this, really - weekdays in London, weekends in Weardale — his travels up north are a delightful excursion for him to look forward to.

Wilf teaches him how to make an old recipe, Westmorland pepper cake, and the whole B&B smells of spice and ginger and cloves all day long as the concoction bakes in the oven. Wilf serves it to the guests after dinner that night, alongside his usual offering of ales and ciders, and John is nearly giddy with the compliments he receives on it. Which he should consider ludicrous, really - he’s spent 10 years working day and night on postdoctoral studies in physics, he should not be getting this excited over _baked goods_ , but he finds that it makes his week. He especially beams when Rose has two servings and teases Wilf that John might put _him_ out of a job soon if he keeps teaching him all of his best recipes.

He learns more skiing, too, of course - one weekend is spent back on the slopes of Swinhope Moor. John does marginally better this time around, not falling quite as frequently, and even learning how to somewhat successfully turn while moving downhill. It’s just as much fun as last week - because he’s able to stay upright more often, Rose is no longer giggling at his repeated falls. Rather, she cheers his successes, with both delighted laughter and big hugs: the first time he makes it all the way down the slope, the first time he turns properly, and even the first time he uses the ski lift without falling when he gets to the top (although _that_ does earn a giggle and a tongue-touched grin). They ride the snowmobile over to Stout Point for a drink after his lesson that day, and sit at the bar with Mickey and Adam and Owen. And Jimmy, of course. The other blokes are friendly, but when his eyes meet Jimmy’s, both men look away quickly, without greeting.

Another weekend was intended for more time at Swinhope Moor, as well - but John hears the rat-tat-tat of sleet and freezing rain against his window during the night. In the morning, he looks out from his window and sees the snow pitted and glossy, obviously coated with ice. His first thought is for Rose, the fear that she could fall and hurt her knee - a thought clearly shared by Wilf as well, judging by the whispered argument between them that John hears as he descends the staircase that morning for breakfast. When John tells her he’s canceling his lesson for the day (although he will _clearly_ pay in full regardless), and that her safety is _obviously_ more important than his lesson, Rose objects - of course she does - but he tells her the lesson that he _really_ wants that day is to learn how to beat her in poker, and darts, and she laughs as he grins back at her and slyly pulls out a deck of cards from his jacket.

–

The ice sculpting festival is _ridiculously_ fun.

They play ice chess for the better part of an hour - Rose was right, of course, and the participants actually _are_ the players on the life-sized chessboard, pushing around ice carvings of all the pieces in the game. He ends up as a knight, sitting proudly astride a horse-head made of ice until the moderator yells at him to get off, and Rose laughs - she’s voted queen on the opposing team, and he smiles. They play until his jeans are frosty, and the bottom cuff of his pants is a frosty block of ice itself: he’s still determined to catch her, but she keeps eluding him, until she finally gets a clear path to him and rams her piece into his own, knocking him off the board and out of the game. Rose laughs, declaring victory, and soon relinquishes her coveted title to someone else. Arm in arm, she scurries off with John in pursuit of hot cocoa to warm themselves up.

There’s a bar there, too - they drink vodka from shot glasses made entirely of ice, the frozen tumblers frosting over from the cold mist of their mingled breaths as John clinks them together, and raises his aloft as if to make a toast.

“What do you want to drink to?” Rose laughs.

“To the best ski instructor I’ve ever had,” he says, and she giggles.

As soon as he downs his beverage, and attempts to move his hand, he finds his tumbler has gotten stuck to his moist bottom lip. Rose laughs as he gently pries it off, her eyes riveted on his mouth even as he frees it. Pleased with his victory, he smiles, noticing that her gaze still lingers on his lips - doubtless to make sure he hadn’t injured himself in the process - then gives her a wicked grin, taking her arm and leading her off see the other sights of the festival.

There’s an ice sculpting competition, of course - John’s not quite sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t teams of two artisans wielding high-powered chainsaws, crystalline shards flung exuberantly into the air as the blocks of ice are eviscerated down into dragons, and angels, and even a miniature horse-drawn carriage. One sculptor makes a dolphin, delicate tendrils of frozen water trailing from its fins as if it had been captured in motion, mid-splash, from the ocean itself. It’s breathtakingly loud and fast and intense, and although of course he’d _seen_ pictures of ice sculptures on telly before back home in London, the process itself is simply beyond anything John had imagined. He glances over to Rose, eager to see _her_ reaction, and instead finds her watching him, as if reveling in his enjoyment of this even more than her own. He smiles at her, her eyes sparkling in response, and she squeezes his arm in delight.

After the contest is over, she links her arm with his own and leads him over to the graffiti wall. He looks down at her and smiles, not minding this at all — they’ve been arm in arm most of the day, it seems, running from one event to the other, and by this point it feels quite natural. The wall itself is actually several large blocks of ice piled on top of one another as if they were bricks mortared together. The wall is flanked by buckets containing ice picks, in a variety of shapes and sizes, and Rose bends over, retrieving picks for each of them.

“What do people normally carve?” he asks, hesitant.

“Names, slogans, that sort of thing - there’s not much room but you can usually find a spot,” she says, eyes focused on the block in front of her.

She soon drops to her knees with her own pick and begins to chisel something out. Curious, John moves towards her. He can’t make out the etchings she’s making on the glistening ice, so he stands behind her, carefully watching as she carves. After a few minutes, she drops the pick back into a bucket, wipes her gloves on her trousers and stands up, admiring her handiwork. The ice itself is bumpy, and from this angle it’s hard to see what she's carved in the sunlight.

“What does it say?” he asks.

She smiles, then looks away, almost embarrassed.

“Prentice Forever,” she says, softly. “It’s a family tradition. Dunno even how it started really, but Gramps told me about my dad carving it every time he’d come here so … that’s what I do now. It’s silly, I guess, just -”

“Not silly,” he says. “It’s lovely.”

She looks away from him, smiling down at the ground. After a moment, her eyes flick back up to his, almost mischievous.

"So um ... if we’re done here … do you like ice skating?" she asks.

After stopping back at the B&B to retrieve some skates, they’re able to take his Volkswagon most of the way there. It's a slightly bumpy drive along a thin and winding road running through an area that looks even less inhabited than the rest of Weardale, if that's even possible. He pulls off to the side of the snowy country road when Rose motions for him to do so. Based on his past experiences and resultant deductions about the safety of the local driving conditions, he's at first a little concerned about the probability of this move landing them into a ditch, but Rose says it's okay, and he trusts her, thinking no more of it.

He gets out of the car and stretches, even though this has been only about a twenty minute ride from the B&B. They're parked on the edge of what looks like a long, wide plain, dotted with leafless trees and conifers in clusters off in the distance. There's something almost exhilarating about this place, as he looks around - it’s energizing, and so unlike his day to day drudgery back home, from his flat to his office and back to his flat. It makes him want to run and skate and ski and hike, and, impatiently, he leans into the boot of the car to grab his borrowed skates.

"Oi! What do you think you're doing?" she asks teasingly.

"Getting my skates, of course," he responds, slightly confused.

"Well get your skis on first - cross country - we'll have to get there over the moor first," she says, nodding to the flat snowy plain across from where he'd parked the car. "It's about a kilometer across this way, then through a small grove of trees, then we'll be at the pond. It's gorgeous, you'll love it!"

"Skiing _and_ skating? Rose Tyler, how you spoil me," he says as she tosses her head back and laughs. It suits her, really, the gentle winter breeze blowing through her hair, and the sun reflecting of the blond strands makes her look a bit wild, a bit untamed, and underscores her natural beauty. His gaze lingers on her for a moment until he sees she's noticed and has stopped laughing. She's looking back at him a bit questioningly, and the silence is suddenly palpable in the air between them.

He fears he's being rude, and takes a deep breath. Swallowing hard, he breaks his eyes away from hers to grab his skis and skates, and they trudge off to the pond side-by-side.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to fadewithfury/foxmoon for the beta - and feedback is always rewarded with hugs!
> 
> * * *

To call this merely a _pond_ is a gross understatement.

“This is …” he trails off.

The body of water itself is frozen solid, coated in a layer of frost and windswept snow that ghosts across the surface in the slight breeze. It’s surrounded on one side by the sparse grove of trees they’ve just passed through, and on the other side by a cliff-face of cracked shalestone, stacked some 10 metres tall, which towers imposingly over their heads. A cascade of multiple frozen waterfalls covers the surface like icy curtains suspended in time. The majestic columns of frozen water form layered icicles that hang in midair, shimmering in the sunlight like frozen diamonds encrusting the ragged edges of the shalestone cliff. It is simply _magnificent_ , and he comes to a dead stop at the sight.

“Yeah,” Rose says, almost breathlessly, standing at his side and staring up at the sight beside him. He glances down at her, and she up at him, giving him a slow smile. Still awestruck, he holds her gaze, watching her smile grow bigger and brighter, then grins back down at her. After a moment, she motions to a nearby rock, upon which she sits and begins to change into her skates. He turns back to the waterfall and stands there just a bit longer, breathing in the view, barely able to take his eyes from it.

“I bet it’s gorgeous in the summer,” he says, finally taking a seat beside her, imagining how this place comes alive when the weather warms and the sparse collection of trees surrounding the waterfall are green and full.

“It is,” she smiles. “You should see it - well ... I mean … if you were ever up here again, you could - or I could send you a picture.”

He doesn’t know quite how to respond to that. He knows - _intellectually_ , he knows, of course - that he’s only booked 12 weekends here, that 6 have already flown by so much quicker than he ever could have expected, and really, what reason does he even have to return after Chamonix, when his need for lessons will be complete? He certainly has no plausible reason whatsoever to return once the snow melts, once this place that he only knows through the lens of frost and ice begins to turn warm and blossom with the promise of spring. He’d spent his whole life without ever once coming to this area before booking his lessons, and he knows the chances that he’d have a reason to come back anytime soon are slim to none. Something flips over in his stomach at the thought, something he can only characterize as uncomfortable, and he gazes mutely at the shalestone.

Rose falls silent for a moment as well, the air between them having grown heavier and a little somber. Her smile fades, her eyes dropping to her laces as she leans over and slowly begins to tie them.

“I heard fishing’s good around here,” he says, feeling ridiculous as soon as the words leave his mouth.

“ _You_ fish?” she says, sitting up suddenly and facing him, her hands paused mid-tie on her skate’s laces, a smile on her face which he’s not sure looks more hopeful or more incredulous.

“Well… I _could_ ,” he stutters, and she laughs, sounding delighted. He can't explain it even to himself, but somehow he feels relaxed, and smiles back at her broadly.

“I used to fish, with my dad, when I was young," he says. "If you know any good places around here, perhaps in the spring we can -”

He cuts himself off as her eyes fall from his again, back down towards her skates. His stomach drops again, nervous, realizing he’d presumed that she’d even _want_ to. He says nothing, but inhales so deeply that the frosty air sticks uncomfortably in his lungs the way any further words seem to be sticking in his throat. They’ve become friends now, and so _of course_ he wants to spend time with her, but she’s still his instructor and perhaps she has no interest in -

“I’d love to,” she says, softly and somewhat hesitantly, interrupting his thoughts. “I just don’t know if I’ll still - I just … I know that gramps talked to you. About uni, I mean. I just didn’t know if you still were willing to-”

“Do you want me to help you get in?” he asks, turning to face her. He exhales the breath he’s been holding, and it feels almost like relief.

“I was … looking into it a bit, I guess? Most of my mates from around here go down to London to work as trainers after ski season is over here, there’s a big indoor ski arena skiers use for training, about an hour outside the city … I mean, they always ask me to come but I - I’ve never done it before because of gramps, but he wants me to go to school and I was thinking I could earn some money that way…” her words come out in a rush, and she suddenly pauses, looking up at him once again, her gaze meeting his own.

“I mean … I wouldn’t ask but you’d _offered_ before, and … only if you want to, I don’t want to put you out-”

“Rose,” he says, turning towards her, placing his hand gently on her shoulder. “I _want_ to help you. I meant every word I said - you’re _brilliant_.”

Her face breaks into a smile then, a wide grin that brings out the sparkle in her eyes, and his hand moves to her jawline for a moment, his woolen-gloved thumb grazing affectionately over the apple of her cheek. He thinks it could be his imagination, but she seems almost to lean into his palm slightly as she gazes back up at him.

“Applications are usually due in January, most schools won’t have Open Days until the spring - but a good friend of mine works at one of the universities in London that recruits students without A-levels, and I’m sure he’d agree to give you a tour if I ask,” John says. He gives a little shrug as his hand falls back into his lap, making a mental note to contact Jack as soon as he gets back to London on Monday.

“You might need to take come catch-up classes over the spring, but you’d be able to start in the fall if you wanted - I honestly can’t see how they wouldn’t take you, Rose.” He gazes intently at her, meaning every word, and she beams back at him, then wraps her arms around him, pulling him in for a hug.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into his shoulder, and he smiles into her hair as he puts his arms around her and embraces her in return.

They skate for the next hour, carving inelegant swirls and loops into the surface of the undisturbed pond with the blades of their skates. He hasn’t been skating since he was a child, and neither one of them is particularly _good_ , but that doesn’t make it any less fun as they circle together on the ice, occasionally grabbing onto the other’s arm for support as they try several times - unsuccessfully - to avoid falling. It strikes him that this is the first time he’s seen Rose attempt an activity at which she isn't much good - a fact which, when he points it out to her, earns him an outraged swat on the arm that sends him sprawling onto the ice, and her tumbling after him as she laughs so hard that she loses her balance.

“I … wanted to ask you,” she says, circling around to face him once they are both upright. “The lesson after next falls on Boxing Day, and I wasn’t sure what your holiday plans are-”

“Did you want to cancel?” he says, unable to stop a small twinge of disappointment from creeping into his voice.

“No!” she says quickly, “I mean … not unless you wanted to, I just … you - you said you didn’t have family, and I didn’t know how you normally spend holidays…”

“No plans,” he says, shrugging. Truth be told, he rarely has plans, normally spending a few hours on Christmas morning in the company of Jack and his family, something that they usually don’t even get around to discussing until the day before the event.

“Would you want to come up? It’s just me and gramps but … you’re welcome, you know. If you don’t have plans for Christmas, I mean ... you could come spend it with us …”

He smiles at her then, a soft, small grin that doesn’t do justice to the slight swell he feels inside him. This is the first invitation from someone other than Jack that he’s gotten in longer than he can remember. The first actual _invitation_ at all, really - generally Jack just announces that John can come over if he wants to, which he does for an hour or two before heading back to his quiet flat, but this … _this_ is a proper holiday, a proper invitation into a proper home and family, something he hasn't even let himself consider - or even been _able_ to consider - in years. His smile fades only slightly as he swallows down something that threatens to rise in his throat, still holding her gaze all the while.

“That would be lovely,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

“Perfect,” Rose says softly, beaming back up at him, as he takes her hand and gives it a slight squeeze before heading back out onto the ice.

–

The next morning, as has become their tradition, John and Wilf make breakfast together while Rose teaches a morning lesson. This time it’s a full English breakfast as per the request of another guest, the father of a family of _eight_ visiting from Brighton. It takes Wilf quite some time to find and drag out nearly every piece of cookware in the inn to make a breakfast that large - cast iron pots and pans and griddles that are so thick and heavy that they barely even all fit on the stovetop. John’s never seen so many other guests at the inn before and can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since it’s been so close to full capacity like this. While Wilf sets the table, John oils the pans and starts on the meats - bacon and sausage and blood sausage and ham, sizzling together on the range while the tomatoes and toast and mushrooms and eggs crackle on other oiled grills, and the baked beans and tea gently boil side by side. It smells _gorgeous_ , the intermingled scents of hard work and home - and _finally_ , when the other guests are all served in the dining room, John makes plates for himself and Wilf and collapses into a chair in the kitchen opposite his friend.

“I hear we’re having a guest for Christmas!” Wilf says fondly, something approaching a twinkle in his eye as he pours his tea.

John pauses, fork in hand, glancing up at Wilf - this is Wilf's _home_ that he's been invited into for the holiday, after all. He’d been so … well, _touched_ , he supposes, when Rose asked him yesterday that it hadn’t even occurred to him that Wilf might have an opinion on the matter.

“I’d… well, I’d love it. To stay. If that’s okay with you, of course?”

“’Course it is! And it’s _better_ than okay - we’re glad to have you here, anytime, you should know that by now,” he says, giving John a smile, accompanied by a pointed eyebrow raise, as if to reassure him of the truth behind the statement.

John makes a show of rolling his eyes, and grins down into his own tea.

After breakfast is over and the multitude of pans are washed and dried, Wilf finishes up John’s checkout paperwork at the registration desk - insisting of course by now on a heavily discounted rate, which John ineffectively tries to talk him out of. As he stands waiting, John’s gaze drops to the basket of bonnie bits. He'd noticed them on his first visit, a basket of colloquially named gemstones. He picks up a stone, a sparkling pink crystal coated with golden dust, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger and holding it up to the light of the nearby window. It glistens slightly in the hazy morning sun, the delicate colors somehow muted by the sunlight, the golden dust glinting as he turns it in his hand, examining it closer.

“So what are these, anyway?” John asks.

“Bonnie bits? Just little pieces of local crystals - fluorite, mainly. Come in all different colors. The miners used to call them that, they used to take them home to their families, like decorations. Sort of a tradition around here.”

John’s eyes flick to Wilf, and his face breaks into a grin as he gets an idea. He places the gemstone on the counter-top, and grabs a handful of additional crystals.

\--

The following two weeks go by quickly. John emails Jack as soon as he gets back to London, instinctively wanting to avoid the questions he’s sure a phone call would bring, particularly since Jack seemed so curious about his ski lessons when they’d last met at the pub. Instead, he simply asks Jack if he can arrange for someone to give a special school tour for a friend. Jack replies that yes, of course any friend of John’s is a friend of his as well, and they set a date several weeks in the future.

Jeanne meets John at The Natural History Museum one day after work - luckily she’s available on a _weekday_ , as he had suggested. The exhibit she’d wanted to see is one of the wildlife photography exhibitions the museum is famous for - photos captured by the world’s greatest photographers of endangered species and botanical realms.

Side by side, they wander through the museum. When she asks about his week he prattles on about his newest research, and how even after single-handedly fixing the department’s broken laser optical measurement device, he _still_ had to write _both_ the computer software to analyze the data _and_ build the bloody computer himself - and that was just _today_ , alone! He looks down at her then, and finds her looking back at him fondly, a small smile on her face. He smiles back at her — it’s one of the things he’s always liked so much about Jeanne after all — her genuine interest in both his work and his thoughts. Later, as they sit together in the cafe overlooking the museum’s outdoor ice rink, they order coffee and discuss their favorite photographs and artists from the exhibit. As they sip their drinks, John looks down at the groups of skaters circling together on the ice below - he can’t help thinking instead of ponds and waterfalls, and falling on his arse with Rose, and he inwardly smiles to himself.

That Friday, Christmas Break begins at the university. John hasn’t spent much time with Luke or Clyde in weeks, as they have been busy with exams and end-of-semester coursework. John’s been busy himself with exams and grading - not to mention _multiple_ excursions to the geology lab on the other side of campus. Luckily however, the boys are available briefly that afternoon to pick up additional paperwork from John for their project. Of course they arrive late, which will make _John_ late, but they _do_ need the paperwork, and it’s Christmas, so he tries to not give them _too_ stern of a glance.

“What are you doing for the holidays, Dr. Smith?” Luke asks, picking up the binder of data John has prepared and putting it in his backpack.

“I’m staying with some friends in a small town up north,” John says, slightly distracted as he shoves a few textbooks into his rucksack, taking a moment to swipe a few wayward strands of hair back across his head. He looks around the room one last time before shooing his students out to lock it up for the holidays, and half-wonders if he’s missing anything. It’s not like he’d necessarily _need_ all of the books he's packing over the break, but it will be very important that he has all possible resources he needs if Clyde and Luke have any intention of remaining on schedule with their -

“Weardale?” Clyde asks.

John snaps his head up, as something almost electric flips painfully between his brain and his stomach, and he feels his pulse quicken. He doesn’t respond immediately, instead taking a breath and stares at Clyde, his stomach somersaulting over the possibilities - did he learn that by himself? Had someone told him? Moreover, had he told anyone else - had he told _Jeanne_? Even as the thought strikes him, he shrugs it off as ridiculous and highly unlikely - neither Clyde nor Luke even take French, and Clyde had only met Jeanne a few weeks prior. Unless she already somehow knows, but she would have told John, wouldn't she? He’d just seen her, after all. All of those possibilities are vaguely mortifying, and _none_ of them explains the most important issue at hand -

“How did you …”

“You’ve left a few receipts from there near our papers … ski lessons, right?”

John stares at Clyde for a long, silent moment, and the boy's expression slowly morphs from merely inquisitive to almost nervous during the pause. Clyde shifts his position back and forth, from one foot to the other, as if he can sense John's discomfort, and John feels a stab of guilt - this is his _own_ damn fault, not Clyde's, and the boy is looking as if he's about to run for the bloody door. John takes a deep breath, puts on the closest thing to a smile that he can muster, and nods. _Dammit_.

“Ski lessons? That’s so cool! Why skiing?” Luke says, crossing his arms and smiling expectantly over at John, seemingly oblivious to the tension, as if he assumed John would expound upon this.

John shifts his gaze over to Clyde, whose eyes are wider than they were a moment ago, his mouth opening and closing ineffectively several times.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Smith - I just ..."

“No, no, it's quite alright," John says, forcing another smile and turning to Luke. "Just … learning. Lifelong learning is good. Broadens the horizons. Definitely … something to do.”

John motions to the door, and all three of them leave the office. John shuts the light and quickly closes the door tight behind him, locking it and shoving his keys into his pocket with such force that the teeth of one of the keys scrapes disobediently across his narrow hipbone, making him wince.

“I’ve got to go. Happy Christmas to both of you, I’ll see you in January!”

John gives the boys a tight smile and a wave, leaving them standing side by side in the hallway as he walks briskly out to his car.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to fadewithfury/foxmoon for the beta, and feedback is always appreciated! Also please check out the lovely piece of ice skating art she drew to go along with Chapter 14 [here](http://fadewithfury.tumblr.com/post/64916080988/spring-conditions-by-kilodalton-happy-birthday-my).
> 
> * * *

**Author's Notes:** As always, thanks to fadewithfury/foxmoon for the beta, and feedback is always appreciated! Also please check out the lovely piece of ice skating art she drew to go along with Chapter 14 [here](http://fadewithfury.tumblr.com/post/64916080988/spring-conditions-by-kilodalton-happy-birthday-my).

* * *

  
John drives up the day before Christmas after shoving his duffel bag, textbooks, and an extremely large cardboard box into his car. He heads north on the M1 and smiles, feeling daft beyond belief but not caring at all as he sings along to Christmas carols on the radio for what seems like the first time since he was a child. Oh, it’s not as if he’s been a complete Scrooge in years past — he observes Christmas annually, of course, albeit in the muted way that people tend to celebrate when they are only really celebrating vicariously through others. This year however, it feels nice to be invited and wanted, and to have an actual place to belong on a holiday. And an actual family too, he hasn’t had that since —

He banishes the thought from his head. Today is not a day for feeling alone, after all — and instead he begins singing anew: this time it’s a chorus of Deck the Halls, unabashed and loud.

He arrives to find that Wilf has already picked out an elaborate menu for Christmas and John can’t help but feel like it’s on his behalf. They resolve to cook together the next day: steaming chestnut soup in a chicken and butter broth, roasted Christmas goose with cranberry sauce, brussel sprouts grilled with shallots and bacon, and plum pudding steamed with spice and ale. Wilf has already gone shopping for most of the ingredients, only realizing he’s short on butter after having returned from the general store. Despite his long trek from London, and over Wilf’s objections, John offers to drive back to the general store while Wilf begins to steam the plum pudding and Rose finalizes her application for school for him to review over the weekend.

  
Although he's been to the town of Weardale twice before, this is the first time John has actually driven there, having ridden with Rose on the snowmobile on both prior trips. Or, rather, having held tightly on to Rose’s waist as she sped through the snowy paths to bring them to the town. He smiles to himself at the memory as he navigates his way off the main street and into the snowy, gravel carpark in front of the Stone General Store. It’s the only shop with its lights still on, the rest of the street having fallen silent and dark, most places likely closed early for the holiday. In a semi—abandoned town like this, he thinks that it should feel unsettling, but Weardale feels so much like a second home to him now that instead he smiles to himself, enjoying the quiet peace of the place.

It’s warm inside the store, and the door creaks slightly and chimes as he enters and stomps his snowy boots on the worn ‘Happy Christmas’ mat inside the entrance. It’s already dusk outside, and the store is nearly empty except for Bev, who greets him with a grin.

“Why hello! It’s John, right?” Bev asks him. “We were about to close up for Christmas Eve, you made it just in time!” Her voice is warm and welcoming, and John instinctively smiles back at her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jimmy taking down an end-cap of holiday supplies — stocking stuffers and tinsel and mistletoe. Jimmy’s head snaps up at his mother’s mention of John’s name, and he stares at John with a blank expression almost bordering on disbelief.

“Yes! That’s me — just need to pick up some butter for Wilf, won’t be but a minute.”

“You’re … spending Christmas here?” Jimmy says as John makes his way to the refrigeration section and picks up a package of butter.

For once, the boy’s words don’t sound rude, or steeped in some adolescent angst-ridden resentment. Instead, he almost sounds resigned, and the look in his eyes not so much cold as truly questioning.

John bites back a sudden temptation for a snarky comeback, instantly embarrassed about even having considered it. Even he can see how much Jimmy fancies Rose — or, at least he doesn’t like the thought of John being anywhere around her. Instead, he gives Jimmy a tight nod — the boy may be a complete and utter arse, but it's Christmas after all. Jimmy looks back at him for a long moment, his face blank, before giving a slight nod back at John and slowly turning back to the display.

–

The next morning, the B&B is awash in the succulent, warm aromas of roasted goose and freshly—brewed coffee even before John gets up. He descends the stairs slowly and soon smiles as he’s able to sniff out the additional, unmistakable scent of banana pancakes, which he hasn’t had in quite some weeks here since he last requested them. He finds Wilf in the kitchen over the oven, several pairs of green and red felt reindeer antlers on his head, and Rose nursing a cup of coffee at the table, a university application sprawled out in front of her, ostensibly in preparation for her tour at Jack’s school in a couple of weeks' time.

She bounds up to her feet with a smile as soon as she sees him, and greets him with a hug and a ‘Happy Christmas,’ which he is only too happy to return.

After breakfast, when Wilf suggests they move to the living room to open their presents, John lingers back for a moment as Wilf plops down in his easy chair next to the Christmas tree and Rose sits cross—legged on the carpet in front of the sofa. It’s not that he’s hesitant to participate — on the contrary, he wants to take a moment to savor this: the decorated Christmas tree, the holiday music piping in via the Sky Box he’d helped set up, the roaring fireplace complete with stockings. He starts slightly when he notices that there’s a stocking for him, as well. Oh, he’d gotten gifts for Wilf and Rose, of course, and clearly he had put a lot of thought into Rose’s gift in particular. All the same, he stills for a moment at the sight, committing it to memory, enjoying the way it feels to belong somewhere, before going to sit beside Rose on the carpet.

Wilf presents him with a cookbook of traditional British recipes, some of which John has made here at the inn over the past few weeks. As he looks inside, he finds that Wilf has written in the margins as well, crossing out some instructions with notes about how rubbish they are, adding others — and even leaving special tips if John should choose to use ceramic cookware (although Wilf makes sure to note that he still prefers cast iron for some of the recipes). There are even a few handwritten recipes snuck in on the back pages for some of Wilf’s specialties. For his part, John gives Wilf a universal remote control he built that will not only work on every television set on the premises, but also the stereo system, and includes light switch adapters so that Wilf can even use it to turn on and off all the lights on the ground floor.

John is hesitant as Rose opens the large and somewhat unwieldy package he brought up with him, wondering if perhaps he should have wrapped it instead of simply putting it in a cardboard box so it didn’t get damaged while moving it — or if he should have added something extra, like a card. He wishes she’d open it faster instead of being so careful, because then he’d know more quickly what she thinks about it, if it’s something that she actually wants or something that she’d already decided that she definitely didn’t want and that’s why she never simply just got one for herself, and the more he thinks about that, the more sense it makes that she may not want this at all, and the sooner he knows, the sooner he can stop wondering if —

She pulls out the contraption… two long, dark blue pieces of metal, the same hue as her snowmobile. She looks up at him, her eyes quizzical like not quite sure what it is, or what to think. He shrugs, attempting to affect a noncommittal posture, and inhales a short breath.

“It’s a ski rack… for the snowmobile. So you don’t need to use bungee cords to tie your skis on anymore.”

She turns the rack over in her hands, carefully running the tips of her fingers over the frame and the midnight blue paint, as if to admire the craftsmanship.

"... You made this?"

He nods, proud but still a bit cautious as she stares at him for a moment before breaking into a soft smile. He can’t quite read the expression on her face, and he feels a fluttering in his stomach, and all he knows is that he really wants her to say something — anything — and to know that she actually likes it. He supposes he could have bought one, but none of the ones he saw were particularly attractive, or had design flaws, and he obviously wouldn't have been able to paint them as easily, or especially to —

From the quick breath she sucks in, he knows the very moment she sees the inscription — Prentice Forever — the text emblazoned in pink paint, shellacked and encrusted with the glistening dust from pink and gold crystals, the bonnie bits he'd purchased then broken down in a hydraulic rock breaker he’d borrowed from the geology lab.

She falls silent, and although he can feel her gaze rise to meet his, he’s suddenly and inexplicably nervous, his eyes flicking instead to the empty cardboard box, abandoned on the floor.

“I ... um … I used some of those crystals …” he trails off. "I didn't know if you'd like —"

"I love it," she says, the words rushing out so quickly and so softly that he’s not sure that he heard them correctly at all.

She puts the rack down beside her and scoots over next to him on the carpet. He’s expecting a hug, one of the embraces that have become so typical of them recently, and starts only slightly when instead he feels her lips graze the stubble of his cheek, light and quick and almost imperceptible. The surprise of it shoots straight through him, weaving its way down his cheek and throat and looping in a crescendo back up his spine, leaving a trickle of frissons in its wake, through his stomach and lungs and into all the muscles of his arms that of their own volition wrap around her in a hug, pulling her closer. As she squeezes him back, he inhales a long breath. The scent of her shampoo mingles with the scent of the Christmas tree, and he smiles.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

As Rose pulls away, his arms drop from her slowly and he feels a slight shiver, like the whole room just got a little colder. She reaches behind her for the one gift that’s left on the floor, a thick white envelope. In a quick motion that’s slightly at odds with how much she’s worrying at her lip, Rose hands him the package.

“You don’t have to open it now,” she says, her words coming out in a rush as he begins to tear the seal, and his gaze rises to meet hers.

“It’s a data CD, and … some photocopies. When we went to the museum, you just seemed interested in your family history because you … well, you didn’t know much, you said. So I emailed the proprietor, she knows a lot about genealogy and ... I haven’t looked at it,” she says, quickly, as his eyes fall back down to the package. “I just … I just wanted you to have it, because … you really should have that. Something of your family, I mean.”

He stares at the package for a long moment. It's strange, he finds — the contents are all he has from his family now, all he has besides his own memories to remember them by, and all of this information, all of this history fits inside the palm of his hand. He's never had this much of them before, he’s never had any sort of a legacy — it never even occurred to him that he could — and yet it’s occurred to Rose, who of course has known grief and loss but nonetheless has always had someone to love her, has always had roots, and a place to call home. A place she’s wholeheartedly invited him into, as well. He swallows slowly, and looks up at her again. It strikes him how uncertain she looks in that moment, as if she’s concerned she's made a mistake, and that he won’t like it. The thought that she could doubt herself at all amazes him — she is brilliant and kind and one of the most caring people he thinks he has ever met. And in that moment, he might even say she’s the most —

He swallows again. Without a word, he opens his arms and gently pulls her into another embrace, but the angle is awkward, with her arms around his waist and his mouth breathing out a small puff of air against her temple. He doesn’t say thank you, he can’t quite force out the words over the lump in his throat, but as she sits back up she’s smiling at him, and he somehow knows that she knows. He gives her a broad grin, and squeezes her hand.

He hears a contented chuckle and looks up at Wilf, sitting back in his brown chair and smiling down at them. John smiles back at his friend, not sure which one of them looks more pleased right now.

–

Wilf leaves them in the living room shortly thereafter, ostensibly to make some phone calls, and they stay seated side—by—side together, still in front of the fireplace. It's a comfortable silence, the soft lull of holiday music on the Sky Box contrasting only slightly with the crackling logs in the fire. He absentmindedly fingers the envelope from Rose, and mulls over all that this truly gives him — something of his family, where previously he had nothing at all. It's a precious gift, almost unfathomably so, to suddenly have something that you never thought existed at all. It brings up a question that has been simmering in his mind lately, something he'd been hesitant to broach before now, not wanting to get Rose's hopes up, or ever risk disappointing her. But the idea that it could help Rose — and Wilf — matters more than anything and wins out.

He looks over at Rose and takes a deep breath. “You said your father had been trying to invent a special pulley system for the mine … do you know if he ever finished?” he asks.

“No, I don’t think so … well, the plans maybe yes, but it was never built.”

John considers this and nods slowly. “Do you keep your father’s old paperwork?”

“Yes, I think so … why?”

He shrugs. “Just something I’ve been wondering. About the patent.”

She looks questioningly at him, but says nothing further. Instead, she gets to her feet and brings him up several creaky flights of stairs to the attic. It's a large, somewhat dusty room filled with boxes that had been unceremoniously shoved away for decades, and it smells distinctively of mothballs and stale air. Rose shuffles through several boxes and bins, finally pulling a box out from the bottom of a large stack, wiping at the lid with her sleeve in an attempt to get rid of the dust.

“Here it is!” she says. “All this stuff is from his office.”

He sits down cross—legged on the floor, whips his glasses out of his shirt pocket and puts them on, picking up a stack of papers. Her gaze lingers on him for a moment longer than normal, and he looks over at her, curious.

“Sorry … I’ve just never seen you in glasses before.”

He gives her a cheeky grin, and her gaze drops from his to the floor, a smile still on her face. He looks back down towards the papers.

The box is disorganized, papers unfiled, pages bent, and carelessly shoved into the box. He can’t help but wonder if it’s Pete who kept his own filing system in such disarray, or if it had been put in here like this after the man’s death, as if the person who’d filed it had wanted to just shut it away and couldn’t bear to look at it. His eyes flick up to Rose, who is looking at him with curiosity. Regardless of the mess, John has written enough grant proposals and filed enough patent documentation on his electronics over the years to know exactly what he's looking for, and carefully sorts the papers as he flips through them. After a few minutes, he finds what he needs, and pulls it gently from the stack, careful such that it doesn't rip. He spends several long moments looking it over before turning to Rose.

“Your father never finished filing the patent on his invention…” John says, looking up at her and pointing to the half—completed forms. “It doesn’t look like he ever filed this with the Intellectual Property Office.”

"Oh... Is that a bad thing?"

She looks down at him, frowning slightly, her eyes searching his face as if trying to gauge if this piece of old information matters at all.

“Well, it means that you can file it yourself, and let companies use it, for a fee of course. Could make quite a bit of money from that, actually. Enough to help out Wilf here, maybe help with your education,” John says.

He pauses, and then continues more softly, “And it means that a piece of your father still lives on, is still helping you, and helping other mining workers. Just like he wanted.”

Finally making eye contact with Rose, he finds her eyes shining. For a brief moment, he wonders if these are sad or happy tears, or tears at all, and if he’s made a mistake saying anything at all about this. His question is soon answered however as she kneels on the floor beside him and throws herself into his arms. He breaks into a wide grin as the force of her embrace pushes him off—balance, and they tumble on the floor, both laughing.

As they hug, he holds her closer than usual, and for quite a bit longer than he typically does. He can’t quite explain it, but somehow that feels right, too. He’s not quite sure how long they stay together on the floor like that, but as they finally rise, smiling at each other, he thinks he finally understands what it feels like to spend the holidays with people he cares about.

——

The next morning they pack a picnic of hot cocoa and sandwiches, and set off to go skiing through a section of the countryside that borders the River Wear. Swinhope Moor is closed for the holiday, so per John’s suggestion they instead head off to go cross—country skiing on the snowmobile, its new ski rack proudly attached. As they trek along the embankment, he catches the occasional glimpse of the river, the icy branches of the trees along its banks lilting down as if to sweep it with a dusting of snowflakes. As usual, Rose is an excellent guide, even occasionally stopping to point out some of the old abandoned mining shafts by the river. The entrances are smaller than John had imagined, and they look eerie, boarded up with half—rotted timbers and forgotten, the snow ghosts in the breeze their only visitors.

Eventually, they ski past the shafts and towards an outcrop of rocks overlooking the cold, meandering river below. They sit here for a bit, rolling out a big thick blanket onto the rocks and pouring out their cocoa for energy and warmth. John stays silent, his thoughts straying to the mine, and all the patent paperwork he plans to file for Rose this week, and it takes him several minutes to realize that Rose has been uncharacteristically silent as well. He turns to look at her, warming her hands on a small steel cup holding her steaming cocoa, her expression unreadable and a far cry away from the carefree smiles he normally associates with her. The silence suddenly seems oppressive, awkward even, and so unlike them — not that there’s a them, of course, clearly they’re just friends, but even so —

“Are you all set for your campus tour?” he finally says. The tour itself isn't for nearly two weeks, but the application deadline is shortly thereafter — and if she gets accepted, which she most assuredly will, she'd probably need to begin basic coursework soon after that, as well.

Rose pauses for a moment, and then nods.

“Yeah … I’ve got a flatmate lined up — Trisha Delaney, she grew up around here, lives in London year-round now. If this all works out.”

"... it will work out, Rose."

She shrugs, her shoulders dropping slightly, and she stares down into her cocoa. When she speaks again, her voice is softer than before.

"It's just ... I've never left here, I've never done anything like this before."

He puts his own cup down on the rock, then turns to face her.

"I never skied before, and you helped me do that. I can help you with this as well. They'll adore you, Rose."

She looks back up at him, her expression still inscrutable.

"It's your friend who’s giving me the tour?"

"Jack? Nah," he says, shaking his head. Although he knows Rose would like to meet his friend, he can't help but be relieved that Jack is busy that day and that someone else will be giving the tour. He still hasn't told Jack that Rose is the prospective student he wants to help, knowing it would lead to questions, comments — and knowing Jack, probably lascivious jokes as well. Nothing he feels like dealing with right now. "His assistant will show you around. Gwen, I think."

Rose nods again, slowly exhaling a long breath, still palpably nervous. He feels a rush of bravado come over him, wanting more than anything else to comfort her — to assure her that everything will work out, everything will be alright. To make her smile, in the same effortless way she always makes him smile.

"Everything will be fine, Rose — I promise."

He reaches for her hand, and threads his fingers through her own, giving them a squeeze. Finally she looks up at him, her expression relaxing as he smiles down at her, and she leans in against him slightly. They stay like that, hands lingering together and intertwined for a long moment as they turn and gaze out at the icy river below them.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to BetaBabe foxmoon/fadewithfury! Also, because I know some people had questions about this, the term spring conditions is actually a ski term that means that you should expect a wide variety of surface conditions: thawing, freezing, etc. Its a bit of an allegory for some of the arcs in this fic, and Ive never met an allegory I havent liked =)
> 
> * * *

After he returns to London, he spends the next two and a half weeks catching up on an _ungodly_ amount of work. His time in Weardale had been wonderful, and he’d had so much fun with Rose–but he’d spent so much time helping her on her application as well as the patent documentation that he hadn't even _once_ cracked a book to look over Luke and Clyde's data. Unfortunately, this doesn't go unnoticed by the boys. Both Luke and Clyde have been in his office repeatedly since his return: Their applications for their advanced studies are due soon and they really do need his help. Which– _of course–_ he will give them, and with plenty of time before the deadline, but between Weardale and the patent documents, plus his normal workload and the fact that he's booked for Chamonix in just over a week, he's been so busy that he asks them to wait–which they grudgingly do, for the time being.

He always makes time for Rose, though. They talk on the phone nearly every night and exchange rapid-fire text messages in between his classes during the day–about the paperwork for the intellectual property office but also about skiing and her upcoming trip to London for the university tour and …almost _everything_ , really.

It’s funny, he muses, how something inside of him soars and he instantly smiles when he hears her voice now–when he gets a text from her, when he thinks of the times they’ve spent together, or the times he knows he’ll see or speak to her again. He grins to himself just _thinking_ about her. If it weren’t for Jeanne, he’d almost have to say he feels like he’s–

He shakes his head, sighing audibly, swallowing down the thought to banish it from his mind. It's completely ridiculous and utterly _impossible_ for him to start entertaining such notions. She's _twenty years old_ for God’s sake–most of his students are her age, if not older. She also happens to be his instructor, and one of his few good friends, and if he wants to _keep_ her–and her grandfather–as friends, he'd better damn well remember that. Plus there’s the small detail that she lives nearly halfway across the bloody country, and while that might change if she indeed comes to London for university, that’s how things are at the present time. And yes, she's utterly _beautiful_ and they've gotten quite close over the past few months, but he's been working towards being with Jeanne for longer than that, hasn't he? And he has an e-ticket to leave for a flight to Chamonix in just over a week to prove it.

He feels an unsettling jolt course through him. He has hardly given a thought to his trip to Chamonix recently, which is odd in a way considering that he's leaving in just over a week's time. And he _should_ be thinking about it, shouldn't he? He was certainly focused on it day and night at the beginning of this whole exercise. This was the entire point of his lessons, after all... initially, at least. And of course he's grown to enjoy skiing, and he's grown to care about Rose and Wilf–but he’s been forgetting that all of this was about _Jeanne._

A thought strikes his mind like a rogue ray of light through closed shutters, and he wonders at his own use of verb tense in that moment–that it _was_ about Jeanne. _Was_. Past tense. That maybe this means that it _had_ been about her at one point–maybe things have changed, maybe going to Chamonix is a mistake. He wonders if this is still is all about Jeanne, or if–

He picks up a Chamonix brochure from his desk, staring hard at it, remembering how it felt when he first got it in the mail, when he tore open the brochure package as soon as he got home and couldn’t wait to open it. How he’d gone back out to buy a French/English dictionary just to translate the damn thing because he’d been in such a rush to order the brochure that he’d forgotten to get the English version. How he’d committed the photos to memory and started to plan his trip and, hopefully, his relationship with Jeanne. He remembers Jeanne’s smile, the butterflies in his stomach when he got the invitation from her, recapturing that moment and how wonderful it had felt to know that someone he wanted _so much_ could possibly wanted him back as well.

It _is_ about her. It _is_.

He'd do well to remember _that_ too.

–

He takes a long lunch break on Thursday to meet Rose at the rail station on the day of her tour, arriving early just to make sure he’s there when her train comes in from Weardale.

As soon as the train arrives, Rose bounds off with her duffel bag and scans the crowd for him, giving him a bright smile and a wave as soon as she sees him. He grins broadly and opens his arms as she jogs towards him, meeting her halfway and enfolding her into his embrace, laughing as the strands of her hair tickle his nose.

“You didn’t have to come,” she says, smiling up at him.

“And _you_ know I wouldn’t have missed it,” he says, smiling back down at her as she hums contentedly.

It feels strange to see her here, against the backdrop hubbub of the busy London railway. He’s always associated her with Weardale, with the fresh country air and dizzying exhilaration of the outdoors. Something inside him flips giddily that she’s _here_ , on _his_ stomping grounds, with _him_ now, and he spontaneously wraps his arms around her again, drawing her close into him as she laughs.

She insists on carrying her own bag as they walk to his car, and she loops her arm through his own and looks all around at the busy station as he smiles down at her.

“Your tour’s at 2?” he says.

“Yes,” she says with a nod as she buckles her seat. “Just need to drop this off at Trisha’s and change, then … guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she laughs, an almost self-deprecating sound.

He gives her a long look. “You’ll be _brilliant_ ,” he says. “How are you getting there, anyway?”

“Taxi, I guess.”

He frowns. “I’ll drive you, if you want.”

“You don’t have to–”

“… I _want_ to,” he says, and she smiles at him.

She gives him Trisha Delaney’s address–luckily, Trisha doesn’t live far from John’s office, giving him a chance to head back to work for a bit. With one last hug, he lets Rose out in the building’s carpark with plans to meet out front a little later.

Clyde’s waiting in front of his office when he returns to school, sitting on the floor outside his door, and nervously jumps to his feet as soon as John rounds the corner.

“Dr. Smith, sorry I just–I know you’re busy but applications are due next week so I just need the final abstract, which means I need your data set–I know you’re headed out of town soon for your ski trip, so I just want to make sure Luke and I get our stuff before then, otherwise–”

“Of course, come in,” John says, flicking on a light switch as Clyde follows him into the room. “Just finished yours last night, here’s your copy.”

The boy nods gratefully, carefully putting the folder in his backpack.

“I’m really sorry to bother you–”

John shakes his head. “No, _I’m_ sorry it’s taken me this long. I’m almost done with Luke’s, I have to leave a bit early today but he can come by to get it tomorrow morning–I’ll leave it in a folder outside my door if I’m not here.”

Clyde nods. “Sounds good.”

John works for the next hour finalizing Luke’s paperwork before driving back to Trisha’s building to meet Rose. She’s standing outside, looking nervous, in a dressy peacoat instead of her usual pink ski jacket, and wearing a pink blouse with fitted black trousers in place of her usual jeans and jumper. A smile percolates at the corners of his mouth, and he’s not able to take his eyes off her as she climbs into his car–he’s never seen her out of jeans before.

“ _You_ –hush up!” she says, pointing a finger at him in a mock warning, and he laughs, giving her a sidelong glance she pretends to ignore, and thinking she’s beautiful no matter _what_ she wears.

They arrive at Jack’s university well before the time of her tour. John’s intent is simply to walk her to the correct building in the veritable labyrinth that comprises the campus of Jack’s school, and to meet her back at the car later. As John motions to the front door of the admissions office, ready to turn and leave, the door swings open. John starts and his stomach sinks when he notices that it’s none other than Jack Harkness exiting the building, walking towards them.

Jack raises an eyebrow, looking from John to Rose and back again. He gives John a long, appraising look, and John stares back at him. John swallows, wanting to ask how on _earth–_

“Saw you from the window. So _this_ must be Miss Rose Tyler,” Jack says, turning to Rose, every syllable distinct and infused with his brightest and most charming smile. “Jack Harkness. Ready for your tour?”

“Yes! And it’s so good to meet you–thank you very much, I really appreciate it.”

Jack shrugs casually. “Any friend of John’s is a friend of mine,” he says with a smile.

"I thought ..." John says, swallowing, his mouth suddenly dry. "I thought Gwen would be here."

Jack doesn’t respond right away. Instead, Jack keeps his eyes focused on Rose, and reaches out his hand to shake her own.

“She called out today. It’s good to meet you, Rose,” Jack says warmly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Jack glances up at John judiciously for a moment, and John can almost _hear_ the questions and comments rumbling through his friend’s mind. Without a word, Jack soon turns back to Rose, giving her another reassuring grin.

“Have a seat in my office, John. We’ll be back later,” Jack says without another glance at his friend, as he opens the door for Rose and ushers her into the main corridor.

–

John’s a bundle of nerves as he waits for them to return, pacing around Jack’s office like a schoolboy sent to the headmaster to get punished. He wasn’t expecting _Jack_ there–he had never told Jack that Rose was the student he had wanted to help. He knows his friend damn well enough to know what he must be thinking and the comments he’ll surely make once they’re alone–about her being a pretty young blonde, his ski instructor, traveling halfway across the country to see each other… and questions about if she had anything to do with how upset John had been at the pub the last time they’d met… and, most of all, what this means for him and Jeanne. Nothing John hasn’t thought of himself, in fact. He wonders what Jack will tell Rose, if anything, about _him_ … most especially about Chamonix. He’d simply been trying to make things _easier,_ when the hell did everything get so bloody _complicated_? He slides down into a tall-backed chair and buries his face in his hands. He should have told Jack that Rose was coming–he _should_ have. And there are probably a lot of things he should have told Rose as well.

Jack and Rose return after what feels to John like _hours_ , both with broad smiles on their faces, and Rose gives John a delighted look that he can’t help returning. The tour must have gone well. He stops himself from squeezing her hand, knowing it would only elicit more questions from Jack, but resolves to give her a big hug in celebration as soon as they’re alone.

“We’ll be in touch soon with an official letter, Rose–but I honestly don’t see that there will be a problem. You’ll need to take some basic courses before you enroll, and classes start for those in a few weeks, so you’ll want to complete them if you plan to start with us in the fall.”

“Yes, thank you so much!” Rose says, beaming.

“John,” Jack says, giving him a measured look, his smile only slightly less broad than before, and his eyes narrowing in a way that would be imperceptible if John didn’t know him so well. “We’ll talk _soon_ , okay?”

John nods, his jaw clenching and his stomach sinking again. “Absolutely,” he says. He doesn’t mean it.

As they leave Jack’s office and make their way down the street, Rose gushes about the tour–the facilities, how nice Jack was, how good of a candidate he thought _she_ was, how well he thought she’d fit in and how happy Wilf would be and how she needs to sign up for classes _now_ and tell Trisha she can move in and–

John laughs softly to himself.

“What?” Rose says, coming to a stop.

“I knew you’d be fantastic, I think you’re the only one who is surprised.”

She gives him a soft smile and opens her arms. He scoops her into a hug then, more lingering than usual, and she feels warm and soft against him in the cutting chill of the late afternoon air. As she finally pulls away he threads his fingers through hers to keep the contact between them, squeezing her hand as they unlock their arms from one another.

“This calls for a celebration,” John says. “How about dinner–my treat?”

She chooses the chip shop, a rather bustling place near school. They thread their way through a crowd of students in the takeaway queue and manage to find a small, rickety table for two off in the corner. They order two baskets of chips and Rose grows quiet as the excitement of the afternoon slowly ebbs away.

“So … one more lesson,” she laughs, a slightly forced sound. “Since I’m here for the next few days anyway, we could have your lesson down here at the indoor training arena if you want–they’ll let me bring my own students in.”

He nods. He really hadn’t thought that far ahead–his room in Weardale still has a lot of his cross-country skiing gear, but he certainly has enough of his downhill skiing gear with him now in London to be able to have his lesson at the arena instead. His _last_ lesson. He feels a pang that he won’t be in Weardale for that, with both Rose and Wilf–the idea seems wrong somehow.

“I always kind of wondered why you came all the way up to Weardale for lessons instead of taking them at the arena … I’m really glad you did, though,” she says, her face lightens with a soft smile as she leans a bit closer towards him.

He swallows, averting his eyes. Of course the reason is that he didn’t want to risk running into anyone he knew. It was such an important consideration for him back then, and he muses that it seems so odd to him now–he’s more than willing to go there with Rose now, anytime she wants, even after their lessons are over. In fact, he truly _hopes_ she wants to. It had been silly to worry about so much about what others–including Jeanne, really–might think of him being a beginner skier, and it hardly seems like anything he should have even thought twice about. All the same, he’s _glad_ he cared about it back then, as he’d never have met Rose otherwise–nor Wilf. They’d never have become such a big part of his life–he can’t imagine not knowing them now.

He sighs. “I’m glad I did, too,” he says, the words soft but sure.

"You coming up again next weekend?" she asks, popping a chip in her mouth. "I know your lessons will technically be over, but we missed that one when the weather was bad, so I was just wondering..." she trails off, uncertainty lacing her voice.

"...Um, no, not next weekend," he says, clearing his throat, the knowledge that it is his weekend in Chamonix pulsating uncomfortably through his mind with every beat of his heart.

He grabs several chips and shoves them into his mouth at once, and it is certainly _not_ to avoid any more conversation on the topic. He doesn’t want to talk about Chamonix–but now _would_ be the time, right? Bloody hell, he doesn’t want to _think_ about this, but it’s impossible not to. His mind races with doubts again that he should be going at _all_ at this point, and he can’t remember how he’d convinced himself out of the same thoughts when he’d had them the other day. They have just _one more lesson_ together … and all he wants to do in this moment is go with her back up to Weardale, not just this weekend, but every weekend. He _needs_ to say something, he knows that, but his mouth is dry from the salt on the chips and he swallows uncomfortably, reaching for his glass of water. He splashes a few droplets on the table as he guzzles it down.

He looks up at Rose, his stomach churning, but she’s looking at the table, at the dwindling number of chips in the baskets, and starts nibbling on the edge of her fingernail.

“I mean...” she takes a deep breath and stammers, still not meeting his eyes. “We’ll both be living in the same city now, and it’s really nice to spend time with you, and I didn’t know if you maybe, sometime, wanted to —”

“Dr. Smith!” a voice calls.

John turns around to see Luke waving at him with a gaggle of his friends, including Clyde, crowded around the counter ordering chips. Luke leaves his group and heads over to John and Rose's table.

“Glad I caught you,” Luke says. He smiles at Rose before continuing, “I was wondering if I could stop by your office to pick up the paperwork–

“Um, sure, yes–now is not a very good–”

“Can I get it this week? Clyde said you’re leaving early next week for your ski-thing in Chamonix–if I could get it from you before then, I could work on it this weekend and have it back for review–”

“Ski-thing?” Rose interrupts.

The boy is still standing beside him, looking down at him expectantly, but John's heart is pounding in his throat, making it harder and harder to swallow down any air and he can't tear his eyes from Rose.

She's still smiling and the look on her face is merely questioning, like she is confused, as if she's misheard, as if she's gotten it wrong and is just waiting for him to correct her.

"You're going skiing? You never said ..." she trails off.

For a long moment, there is just silence. He wants to say something–anything–but his mouth is dry again and he just sits there, his gaze riveted uselessly on her.

"I mean, _Chamonix_ , the trails are pretty advanced, that whole place is like ..." she laughs, a little unsure. She makes an expansive motion with her hands, and somehow, it doesn't need saying and he knows what she means.

That it's expensive.

Elaborate.

 _Romantic_.

They sit like that for a long moment more, all words having fled his brain. He wants her to know that he doesn't mean it like that, hasn't meant it like that in a while. He's horrible at poker, as she's told him time and time again, and he knows the look on his face most likely reflects the growing knot in his stomach that is crushing the very breath from his lungs. Her breath catches a little and something falters in her eyes. His eyes drop to the table, unable to hold her gaze. When she speaks, her voice is softer.

"Are you going with any- ... I mean, that's not the sort of place you just ..."

She trails off, and after a moment his eyes flick guiltily back up to hers, her own eyes searching his face for an interminably grueling minute. He can't open his mouth to say anything, as she looks back at him, the confusion in her face slowly giving way to resignation. He can’t keep looking at her, he can’t watch this happen, and his eyes drop to his empty water glass. He can’t think of _what_ to say–he certainly can’t lie to her, never to her. He could say he’s going with a group of professors, which is true, but that wouldn’t be the half of it, and he can’t say that, and he can’t even think of anything to say _about_ Jeanne right now. He should have told her, _he_ _should have told her_ , right at the beginning, and he forgets why he didn’t anymore, and although he hasn’t lied to her, he hasn’t told her the truth, not really–and he can’t lie to himself and pretend that–

"Oh," she says, in barely more than a whisper, and as he looks back up at her somehow he knows that she understands everything.

It's not just her eyes that fall to the table then, her entire face lowers. He doesn't know what to do, what to say, but the overhead light in the chippy reflects off the golden strands of her hair, and they're so beautiful– _she's_ so beautiful, and no, this can absolutely, not be hap-

She raises her head then, her expression guarded in a way that he's never seen it before, not even when she was a complete stranger. The first time– _every_ time–he sees her, she looks so open, so happy to see him. He’s so used to being able to tell exactly what she is thinking from the look in her eyes, the smile on her face, and more recently, the way she reaches for his hand, but now she’s just looking like she wants to get away and be anywhere, _anywhere_ , but here.

Something inside him twists painfully as she gives a tight smile then reaches for her purse, her eyes focused on the table all the while. He notices she has a smudge of vinegar on the sleeve of her new blouse, and he stares at it, oddly transfixed, wanting to just reach over and–

“I’m sorry … I need to go,” she whispers, that awful smile is firmly planted on her face but it's _wrong,_ he’s never quite seen her smile like that before and he never, ever wants to again–and she won't meet his eyes. She turns her head away and suddenly he can’t see her face anymore. Panic flares in his chest and he feels nauseous, struck by the thought that if she leaves here now, he might never– _no_ , he won’t even let himself think it. As she turns from him, he sees her chest convulse slightly, as if she’s coughing or–

"Rose..." he finally creaks out, whispering gruffly, an admonition and a plea all in one, his heart stuttering so fast he thinks it might shatter through his ribcage and fall to the floor at her feet as she begins to stand.

She doesn't look back at him, the metal legs of her chair clawing against the floor in a noisy shriek that makes him recoil, spurring him into action as he realizes she's _leaving_.

"Rose– _Rose!_ " he calls, louder now, finally finding his legs and standing up to go after her, but she’s already to the door and doesn’t turn around, unlike the other patrons now turned around in their seats, staring at him. His face is flushed and he can hear his own pulse beating in his ears and he just can't let her leave thinking–

He shoves his own chair back as well, ignoring Luke, who's still standing there, gaping at him.

" _Sir!!_ " the waitress yells after him as he moves towards the exit. "You haven't paid for your baskets of chips yet!"

John turns around, flustered and hurried, as he reaches into his coat for his wallet and mindlessly tosses a few bills on the table. He’s not even sure how much he leaves, he’s got several £50 notes in his wallet he was saving for Chamonix intermingled with the rest of his cash, but Rose is _leaving_ and fucking Chamonix is the last thing he cares about right now.

"I'll get you your change," she says, with a nod.

"Keep it," John mumbles, sloppily replacing his wallet in his pocket and banging his hip painfully against the table as he turns to hurry out the door, not even sparing a glance for Luke, still standing there bewildered as the door slams shut behind him and he races after Rose.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to fadewithfury, who really outdid herself helping me with this chapter =)
> 
> * * *

The street is bustling with pedestrians as he steps out into the late afternoon chill. College students meander through the crowd of homeward-bound commuters heading for the tube. His head darts from side to side but he doesn’t see her _anywhere._ He realizes with a jolt that he has no idea where she would be headed–certainly not back to his car, and as this is her first time in London, he’s not sure she even knows where they _are_. Panicked, he looks everywhere, desperate to find her, or a sign of her– _anything_.

“ _Rose_!” he calls out, a gruff and throaty shout he suspects she won’t respond to, but he _hopes_ all the same.

He waits for a moment, but she’s nowhere in sight and sure enough she doesn’t reply–none of the pedestrians even look up at him.

His fingers are trembling, half numb from the biting cold air, and he fumbles to extract his phone from his jacket pocket. He navigates to his contact list, and she’s at the very top, the most recent one, just like she has been for weeks. Her contact picture is a selfie he took of the two of them hugging in front of the fireplace at Christmas, and they look so _happy._ He stares numbly for a moment at her picture and wonders if she’ll ever–

 _No._ He won’t let himself finish that thought. She’s become such a part of his life, and he _can’t_ lose that; he _won’t!_ They’ll work this out–they _have_ to. He can’t imagine an alternative. He’s lost so much already in his life and he can’t bear the thought that–

He swallows, and, with fingers shaking hard from both fear and adrenaline, he swipes his finger over her number and holds his breath as it the call connects.

It rings four times then her voicemail picks up.

“ _You’ve reached Rose, leave a message!_ ” she says before the beep, and he can hear the smile in her voice, and he closes his eyes, letting it wash over him.

“Rose, it’s me,” he says. He’s left her messages over the past few weeks and they’ve all started the same way, but this time he can’t muster his typical grin. There are no jokes with the sole intent of hearing her laugh. This time his voice is raspy and raw, and his heart thrums so fast he feels nauseous. “Please Rose, I–please call me.”

His thumb hovers over the red button to end the call when he is struck with a fear that she _won’t_ call back. He adds in a hurry, “Or… I can call you. _Please_ talk to me… I… I’m sorry. I never meant any of this to happen, and I just–I’m so sorry.”

He clicks off slowly, hesitant to break the tenuous contact he has with her, even just through a tinny connection with her voicemail. His eyes try to penetrate the crowd around him again, as if by sheer force of will he could look _through_ them and find her. He’s not sure what to do–she’s not here, by this point she’s already gained a head start on him, and he just can’t _stand_ here while she walks further and further from him.

He hesitates for a moment, scanning the crowds both to the left and to the right, unsure of which way to go before making his decision.

He turns right.

–

He races several blocks, his feet skidding perilously over the dirty snow that has been trampled down and frozen into slipshod mounds on the pavement. All the while, his eyes sweep over the crowds and shop windows just in case she may have gone inside one. He wracks his brain to think of _where_ she could have gone.

He sees a flash of blonde hair and races ahead, feet slipping under him. He finds his footing and propels himself onward with a gnawing, gaping need to see her. Heart in his throat, he thanks the universe for giving him a second chance to make this _right_ –only to stop in his tracks as the woman turns, and it’s not Rose after all. His mind races, wondering if she’s called a taxi, or if maybe he was wrong and she headed in the opposite direction when she left the chip shop–and bloody hell he wishes there could be ten of him, one to take charge of all the streets and sidestreets and stores. Maybe one to go back in time and _stop_ this horrible day from happening in the first place.

Fifteen minutes ago they were talking and laughing, and she was smiling at him–an hour ago he was holding _her_ , holding her hand. His stomach turns over on itself, and the chips he ate feel as cold and heavy as frozen ball of lead. This shouldn’t have happened– _anything_ but this.

He reaches for his phone one more time and hits redial, putting the freezing plastic shell up to his almost painfully cold ear as the call connects, prayingto gods he doesn’t even believe in that she picks up, that she’ll let him explain. Not that he knows what he’ll say, but if she’ll just let him see her–if he can just hold her hand again he knows he can make it better. Being with her makes _everything_ better. To hell with Chamonix, to hell with everything, if she will just talk to him.

It doesn’t even ring this time–it goes immediately to voicemail, and his stomach sinks. Clearly she’s shut her phone off.

A knot wells up in his throat, and before he can swallow it down, it rises up past his frozen, stuffy nose and into his eyes. He blinks it away rapidly, turning his head, his eyes roaming over the crowds uselessly one more time _._ She’s not there.

Slowly, he turns back the way he came.

–

It’s dark when he walks past the chippy–the inside warmly lit and inviting. He knows she won’t be in there, but he can’t help but look all the same. He doesn’t recognize any customers from before–even Luke and his mates are gone, and their absence makes him wonder just how long he’s been walking. A man and woman now sit at the table he and Rose had occupied. They’re holding hands as they wait for their chips, smiling at each other and laughing. A stab of jealousy cuts through him–why can’t that be _him_? Why the hell do _they_ get to be happy, when everything is falling apart around him?

He knows he shouldn’t call her again, she clearly doesn’t want to talk to him right now, and the last thing he’d _ever_ want to do is push her, but he _needs_ to hear her voice, to know that everything will be alright. He decides to call again–and then decides against it–at least a half dozen times, as he holds his phone in his hand, willing it to ring.

It doesn’t.

He drives slowly to Trisha’s building, wondering if maybe she’d somehow found her way back there. He can’t help looking out his window the entire ride there, scanning the sidewalks, hoping to see her, to get a chance to _talk_ to her… to explain… he doesn’t even know what he wants to say, what he _can_ say, only that he’ll do anything– _anything_ at all–to make this right. To make _them_ right.

It’s dark when he parks out front, near the same spot he’d picked Rose up just hours before. She’d smiled at him, hugged him, and he’d thought she looked _beautiful_ but he hadn’t told her. God what he wouldn’t give for a chance to do this entire bloody day over again and tell her now–tell her _everything_ now.

He reaches for his phone, sitting cold and silent beside him on the passenger seat. Should he call again? Is her phone on? Had she even seen that he called or heard his voicemail? They text so often and he _knows_ she checks that constantly… Right then, he’ll try that instead. Maybe she hadn’t heard it ring?

Or worse–what if she assumes he just went home? That he doesn’t even care? His stomach twists at the thought and his fingers fly over his keypad.

_I’m worried, please tell me you’re somewhere safe. Can I come get you?_

 

After a moment he hears the chime of an incoming message and his heart leaps as her reply pops up on the screen.

 

_i’m ok, i’m at Trisha’s_

Relief unfurls inside of him, and he looks up at the large building. Lights are on in at least half of the windows, and he silently curses at himself for not bothering to ask her earlier for the number of Trisha’s flat.

_I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. Can we talk?_

He stares at his phone… she’s there, isn’t she? What if she put her phone down and walked away? He wouldn’t blame her if she had. His own phone remains silent, and the knot begins to grow once again in his stomach.

 _Please,_ he adds after 6 minutes and 35 seconds pass. He watches his phone, silently pleading with it, as the screen goes from bright to dim to cold and black within a span of a minute. He swallows and closes his eyes, only to open them with a start as his phone chirps back at him. His pulse races with renewed hope… he can _fix_ this, of course he can, it’s _them_ and she’s one not only one of his best friends but also the woman he thinks he–

His eyes adjust and he reads her message: _i can’t talk tonight, i need some time._

His stomach drops, but the sensation is fleeting, the nausea soon replaced by an eerie calm. Everything is suddenly quiet in his head, so silent in fact that he can almost hear the thudding of his pulse inside his ears, and it gives him the dizzying sense of vertigo, like everything cannot be what it seems or how it seems. This… this _cannot_ be happening. This is a nightmare. This can’t be his phone, or his Rose, or his shaking hands, numb and slightly chapped from the cold. He realises that he forgot to turn on the car’s heater all this time–it’s freezing outside. Did she really walk all that way in this weather just to get away from him? She’s never pushed him away, and he’s never given her reason to. Not until today. His clumsy and cold fingers drop the phone from his grasp and it thuds loudly on the hard plastic gear shift of the car as it falls, knocking him out of his reverie.

He lets out a shuddering breath, watching transfixed as it morphs into tiny crystals as he exhales. After a moment, he shifts his car into drive and slowly makes his way home.

–

He barely sleeps that night–he barely even tries–his mind keeps replaying the entire evening over and over and _over_ again and he can’t–he just _can’t–_ lie there in bed and relive it. He makes his way to the kitchen for a drink and grabs an ale from the refrigerator–it’s one of the brands he’s now fond of, that Wilf regularly buys from Consett. Oh God, Wilf… his stomach twists again, he hadn’t even considered him until now. He wonders if Wilf knows–what Rose will say to him, what _he_ must think. He wrenches his mind away from the thought, it’s too much, _far_ too much to consider losing Wilf’s friendship.

Wilf and Rose had invited him into their home–practically into their _family_ , something he’d thought had been lost to him. He’d had neither for so long, and if he were to lose something like that again, something so precious, he’s not quite sure what he’d do. After everything he’s lost in his life, he can’t lose more people he cares about–he _can’t_ lose them, too.

He finishes his ale quickly and drinks another. He plays FIFA on his PS3 and does uncharacteristically badly. He’d meant to bring the PS3 up to Weardale, it had excited him to learn that Rose had never played before, and he’d wanted to be able teach _her_ something for a change; moreover, she’d wanted to learn.

He swallows. He shuts the PS3 off. He drinks yet another ale. Eventually he dozes on the sofa, his sleep shallow, his dreams fitful with the memory of her walking away from him.

\--

She doesn’t call or text him the next morning.

Luke stops by for his paperwork soon after John arrives at his office the next day, stammering apologies. John shrugs blearily and tries his best to assure him not to worry–it’s not his fault, after all. The sick irony of it all isn’t lost on John–he’d spent so much time working on the patent documentation for Rose that he’d neglected Luke’s work, which led to everything with Rose blowing up in his face. Even so, as a gesture of goodwill he offers to put in a good word for Luke at both of his top choice schools–London, which is easy enough since Luke is already a student here and John’s word will carry considerable weight, as well as the even more prestigious physics program at Durham, where an old friend of John’s is chair of the physics department. Luke is grateful--mollified, even–and leaves the room with a smile on his face. John wishes he could say the same for himself.

He sneaks peeks down at his phone while teaching his morning lectures. Still no messages. Perhaps–perhaps she’s waiting for _him_ to call _her_ again? They’d left that bit unclear, hadn’t they? She’d only said she needed some time–she hadn’t said how much time, or said that she would be the one to call. And could he _really_ expect her to reach out to him–maybe she’d been waiting for him, constantly checking her phone the same way he’s been checking his. Maybe she’s wondering why he hasn’t tried contacting her again.

Or maybe she still doesn’t want to speak to him–his lips press into a thin line at the thought. There’s only one way to find out. After class, he composes a text message. Deletes it. Writes another one. Rephrases it. There. Not pushy–just letting her know he’s thinking about her, just asking her.

He clicks “send.”

_Will you let me know when we can talk?_

 

A few minutes later his phone chirps in response, his fingers instinctively flying to his pocket to retrieve it, nearly knocking over his cup of coffee in the process.

_yes_

He exhales a breath of relief–she answered. And that’s _good_ , isn’t it? The sensation is short-lived though–she clearly doesn’t want to talk to him yet, she’s still upset. That’s what that means, doesn’t it? He’s never seen her upset for this long–he’s barely seen her upset at all, in fact, and certainly never at him. But this means she’ll talk to him, doesn’t it? _Doesn’t_ it?

His phone doesn’t ring for the rest of the day or the day after that, and he writes her message after message, but doesn’t send a single one of them. He’s pulled from one long day to the next, as if the universe is grabbing him by his heart, yelling at him to _move_ , to budge forward, even though the only thing he wants to do is to go _back_ , to be with her. It’s the only thing he wants to do, the only thing he can _think_ about, but she hasn’t called.

She said she needed time–exact words “ _i can’t talk tonight, i need some time”_ which impliesshe’ll talk to him at _another_ time, plus she _promised_ she’d let him know when she was ready to talk. He’s read that conversation over and over this week, as well as their happier texts from weeks past. He scrolls through these conversations, about telly, her job search, and some recipes with which he was experimenting in his flat first before making them for Wilf on his next trip. He’d even sent her step by step pictures while cooking because she’d said it sounded delicious. And he’d helped her pick out a new laptop after she’d texted him with pictures of a few different ones she was considering. They’d talked _all the time_ , every day–they’d gotten so close. Surely they still are, aren’t they? She wouldn’t have forgotten all that.

She asked for time… he can give her that. He’ll give her anything she wants.

–

It’s his first Saturday without her in months.

The entire day feels skewed, like an out-of-sync audio track on one of the many horrible shows on telly he’s been watching every night till the wee hours of the morning this week. It’s unspoken and entirely understood that his ski lesson is canceled–not that he even bloody _wants_ it anymore. He stares at the walls of his flat as if _they’re_ the ones who’ve given him offense–he doesn’t want to _be_ here, damn it, he wants to be with her, and she won’t even talk to him.

His eyes fall to the paperwork on the table. It had arrived via post yesterday from the patent office. It sounds simple enough: one more signature is required–Rose’s–before they process the paperwork. The sooner she signs, the sooner the patent can be filed and the technology licensed out. Regardless of anything else happening right now, he’s still her _friend,_ and she’s put her complete trust in him to deal with this on her behalf. She needs to know, to sign this.

He grabs his phone and hesitates. The selfie he took of them both as her contact picture stares happily back at him, and he looks at it for a long moment, remembering how happy he had been and wondering how this all managed to go to hell. Then he calls her.

Her phone rings twice, and his stomach flutters uneasily. What if she doesn’t pick up? What if–

“Hello?” she says, and her voice is unnaturally guarded but even so, _she picked up_ and his heart soars.

“Hi, it’s… me… I..um-- I’m sorry to call, I know you said you wanted… but… the patent papers are here. I have them, they need your signature,” he says. His heart is pounding and there is _no_ going back now. He _has_ to talk with her, and to hell with all his plans, to hell with Chamonix. “I thought maybe I could–maybe I could come up this weekend. If–um, if you’re free?”

“I can’t this weekend,” she says, her voice quiet, and his stomach tumbles into his knees. “I mean–I’m moving in with Trisha this weekend.”

“Can I help?” he says, hope flaring once again. “This weekend. I mean I can help you move this weekend. I’d–I’d love to help.”

As soon as he pauses to take a breath, he starts to second guess his choice of words. His stomach churns as he realizes that he hadn’t come right out and _said_ he wouldn’t go to Chamonix–although the implication was as clear as day in his head. To him, in fact it barely needed saying at all– _of course_ he wouldn’t go to Chamonix. Instead, he’d _stay_ , he’d help her, he’d spend that time with her. Because she was worth–

“No, thank you but I–” she trails off. “Jimmy’s been–he… he’s helping me.”

He takes a sharp intake of breath, and the air entering his lungs feels like lead. Jealousy flares inside him at the mention of the other man’s name–the other man who’s known her for years and fancies her, no less. He wants to tell her she doesn’t need Jimmy because he’ll be there for her– _always._ He’s shown her he cares about her, hasn’t he? Despite all this, she _has_ to know that.

“Rose–” he starts, not even knowing what he’s going to say, just knowing that he can’t stand this any longer.

“Besides, you–” she says, cutting both him and herself off, and through the silence on the other end of the phone, he hears her breathing, slightly ragged–and the last thing he wants is to upset her so he stays quiet. “I want–”

He hears her exhale again. When she continues, her voice is soft. “Have a good time this weekend–I mean it. I want you to. Just–stick to Les Houches, ok? Don’t–don’t go to the Vallée Blanche, the ridges are too dangerous.”

“Rose…” he says again, his voice a whisper.

“I’ve gotta go. We’ll catch up on the paperwork when you get back, ok?”

She clicks off quickly, and he stares at his phone, a sinking feeling coursing through him. She’s counting on Jimmy now, not him–and she didn’t even _tell_ him that she’s moving in with Trisha. She didn’t even ask for his help, didn’t want it, and doesn’t she know he would do anything–

He would have gladly canceled his entire trip just to see her this weekend, but… he swallows. He slips the patent documentation back into its envelope and leaves it on the table next to the most recent issue of _SKI_ magazine. He doesn’t much want to look at either of them right now.

–

Going to Chamonix is the last thing he wants to do.

Even so, when Jeanne calls him the day beforehand for the confirmation number of their shuttle to the resort, he can’t think of a good reason to tell her he’s changed his mind. Rose is busy with _Jimmy_ this weekend, after all. All that canceling would accomplish is to alienate him from yet another person, and Jeanne doesn’t deserve that.

She meets him at the airport with an enthusiastic wave and a smile. He sees the concern etched on her brow as soon as she takes a good look at him, and it's lovely of her to worry about him, it really is. He feels her gaze search his face, and she doesn't need to say a word–he knows full well that he has bags under his eyes, and he shrugs.

"Haven't been sleeping well," he says simply. She doesn’t look quite convinced, but she loops her arm through his anyway and leads him towards the terminal.

He can tell by her frown that she’s disappointed they don’t have seats together on the flight to the Alps, and instead are sitting several rows apart; he feels horrible admitting it even in his own head, but it’s almost a bit of a relief to not have to make conversation. Instead, he stares out the window, thinking about the girl slipping farther and farther out of his reach with every kilometer he flies towards France. He wonders if she’s thinking about him, if she hates him, if she has even the smallest idea how even thinking about the past week without her is _crushing_ him. And he thinks about _Jimmy_ , who’s doubtlessly with her right now, and his jaw clenches.

The flight is uneventful, as is the taxi ride to the resort and his arrival at the hotel. Even here in France, it’s not a stretch to say that everything reminds him of Rose. The mountains are gorgeous, and he wonders if she’s been here–surely she has, hasn’t she? She’s clearly familiar with the trails here and he can’t help wonder about which ones she’s skied, where she stayed, how she liked it. He opens his ski bag and finds a day pass to the slopes at Swinhope Moor still attached to his ski jacket. He can’t bear to throw it away; instead he carefully detaches it and places it back inside his bag for safe keeping.

He eventually descends from his room to the cocktail hour Jeanne’s encouraged him to attend, and the room is _packed_. He’s not the only professor there–half the French and history departments seem to be there as well, all Jeanne’s friends and intellectual counterparts. She’s holding court in the corner, completely in her element, laughing with someone he doesn’t recognize. They trade a smile and a wave and he turns towards the bar to get a glass (or three) of wine. He looks around, and there aren’t many other people he knows. Come to think of it, he might be the only lecturer in the sciences who’s even _here_.

He stays for the better part of an hour, circulating around a table set up with nibbles, half-listening to conversations about research and grants–and one engineering lecturer’s detailed discussion of his newest patent application. He swallows, decides he’s made enough of an appearance, and quietly heads up to his room for the evening.

–

The next morning he slowly packs up his gear and heads down to the lobby, as Jeanne has arranged for a group trip to ski at Les Houches, the same location Rose had suggested. He stops short as it strikes him that this is the first time he will ever be skiing _without_ her, and the thought leaves him empty. He’s quiet the whole shuttle ride there, wondering if Rose is moved in to her flat by now. He glances over the brochure for Les Houches to pass the time, his eyes focusing on the description of the multiple draglifts scattered around the slopes, and he thinks of the draglifts in Weardale, falling with Rose the first time he used one… and _Jimmy_.

His jaw clenches and he exhales slowly. He turns the brochure over and looks at the different amenities at Les Houches, the different types of trails, including cross-country trails that make him think of entire afternoons spent on low-lying hills, and picnics and hot cocoa on the banks of the River Wear. Les Houches even has a snowpark with festivities for maximum winter entertainment–and his mind wanders to thoughts of ice chess and vodka and traditions faithfully carved into a block of ice.

He swallows thickly. Without another glance, he folds the brochure and puts it in his pocket.

Upon their arrival, John puts on his skis somewhat lethargically–it’s bloody _freezing_ , and more than a small part of him just wishes he’d stayed back at the resort–or better yet, in London _._ He can’t help but stare as a group of at least half the professors begins to congregate around a ski instructor with a clipboard who’s signing them up for introductory lessons on the nursery piste. He can’t help letting out a self-deprecating chuckle… by the looks of it, he really shouldn’t have worried at all about his own lack of knowledge. A good portion of professors who’ve made the trip clearly are beginning skiers as well.

But… all the same, he’s _glad_ he worried about it so much–and even if she never forgives him, he’s still so happy he got to spend time with her. He only wishes–

Jeanne comes up beside him, nudging his arm with her own.

“Ready?” she asks, her eyes bright, motioning over to the sign for a nearby piste.

“As I’ll ever be,” he says, and he feels her eyes linger on him for a moment as he adjusts his goggles.

They make their way over to a history professor and his wife near the top of the piste, and Jeanne waves to them in a friendly greeting. John forgets the man’s name, but he seems to be even more of a novice skier than John himself, and is fiddling with his ski poles, which are clearly too long for him. They stand by patiently waiting for him for a moment until he’s finished, and begin to trudge closer to the top of the slope, ski poles in hand.

"Don't forget to fasten your wriststrap!" his wife says.

"I'm not an idiot, dear," the man says, between clenched teeth, sparing a quick glare for her as he wrestles the strap over his gloved hand and fastens it.

"Don’t start. Anyway, I see people forget to do that all the time,” she says, fastening her own.

"They might be planning to ski off-piste," John says quietly. "You don't want to fasten it then. You could get hurt. Lesson number one, really ..." he trails off.

After a moment, Jeanne clears her throat. “Shall we?” she says with a smile, securing her own goggles.

She pushes herself onto the piste and begins to glide down the hill. After a moment, John lets out a long sigh and follows her.

–

They make it back to the resort by early evening. Despite wanting nothing more than to go back to his room at this point, there’s a reception in one of the suites. He hasn’t had anything to eat all day, so he gets himself a glass of wine and drifts around the nibbles table, picking at the array of hors d’oeuvres. He’s even less inclined to make conversation tonight than the previous evening, so when one of the art lecturers makes a comment in passing about the low admission standards at some of the metropolitan universities, he walks away, not even bothering to excuse himself. The adjoining sitting room is quiet–and better yet, _empty_ –and he sits on the sofa, staring into the fireplace and marveling how quickly this past week had all gone to hell.

He wonders how she is, if she misses him… if Jimmy’s still with her right now. He hasn’t expected a message from her, but that hasn’t stopped him from checking his phone anyway, and hoping. The weight of his thoughts is suffocating, and he can barely remember a time when everything didn’t seem so complicated. It doesn’t seem possible that merely a week ago he would have considered himself _happy._

He hears a noise behind him, and briefly glances up before letting his gaze fall again. Jeanne is standing in the doorway, looking over at him. Quietly, she closes the door and slowly makes her way over to sit down beside him on the sofa. He doesn’t look at her, his hands remain cupping his glass of wine and his eyes stay focused on the fireplace.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m always alright,” he replies, the words soft yet robotic.

Jeanne looks at him pensively for a moment, turning slightly more towards him. Placing her own glass of wine down on the table, she reaches up and brushes a few stray strands of hair back on his head, her fingertips grazing his forehead. It feels _nice_. Like someone doesn’t hate him, and God knows he seems to have given people enough reason to hate him recently.

He finally turns to face her. He looks at her, at the sheer understanding in her eyes, and he hates _himself_. Hates Rose. Hates skiing. Hates Wilf and patents and ice skating and banana pancakes and chips and Weardale and Chamonix and Jeanne and Luke and everything that brought him here because it bloody _hurts_ and he doesn’t know why. It _shouldn’t_ hurt. He hasn’t done anything wrong, and he has nothing to feel badly about. There is no justification for his stomach flip-flopping around the way it is right now —and not flip-flopping because he’s sitting so close to Jeanne, who’s now holding his hand and looking at him so affectionately. Flip-flopping because it feels like he’s missing something critical, and he’s _brilliant_ and never misses anything important, and it makes him bloody _angry!_

He’s been working for _months_ to get here, for months! He’s wanted this woman for months, and she’s sitting right here, choosing to be alone with him, ignoring the guests in just the other room—and he’s miserable. He would have given anything for this a few months ago, he had it all planned out. How he'd get her alone and he'd take her hand and then lean down to kiss her. How she'd hopefully respond passionately, and he'd take her in his arms on the sofa, in the hallway... who knows, even on the bed, perhaps. He'd wanted that so badly all this time. And he hadn't planned on feeling this way, like this is the last place on earth he wants to be. He hadn't planned on this. _Fuck_ this.

For a long moment she doesn’t say a word, just sits there with him, stroking his hair, gazing at him tenderly. She soon lets her hand fall to his face, cupping his cheek, stroking his jawline, still regarding him intently, almost reverently.

As the guests talk and the music plays in the other room, she slowly and gently leans forward and brings her lips to his.

He may hate himself for it, but he lets her.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to BetaBabe fadewithfury!
> 
> * * *

The morning sun rises bright and insistent, piercing through the curtains of John’s room. In a futile attempt at avoidance, he flops over listlessly on his mattress and pulls the richly threaded white sheet over his head. It doesn’t provide much comfort–not that he was expecting it to. While the rest of the professors have made plans to rise early and return to either Les Houches for the day or explore the more advanced ridges at the Vallée Blanche, John has already decided to stay in bed. It seems to be his best alternative, as he has nowhere he particularly wants to be right now. He has no desire to relive yesterday’s joyless experience at Les Houches–hell, he has no desire to relive anything from yesterday, really. And Rose had warned him against attempting the more advanced trails at the Vallée Blanche, and so that leaves him here…

Alone. In the dark. He closes his eyes and swallows thickly.

His head throbs and his eyes feel like they are scratching against the cotton-wool insides of his eyelids, and his heart just… he swallows. His throat is so dry that it feels like it’s covered in parchment, raspy and crackling with every breath. He grimaces, knowing this is doubtlessly due to all the wine he consumed last night at the cocktail party–in addition to what was clearly the horrific idea of drinking far too much Jack Daniels when he’d finally scurried back to his room.

He opens his eyes slowly, and glances at his phone on the end table. No messages, and six hours until his flight leaves. He rolls over one more time and stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t fall back to sleep.

His flight takes off from the Chambéry-Savoie aéroport much later that day than he'd expected, the plane having been delayed due to ice. He’s clearly much more annoyed by this than the several other professors booked on his flight, who are laughing and sharing pictures and already discussing the next excursion, leaning over each other’s seats like children on a school trip. The rest of the group–including Jeanne, he supposes–he’d never actually asked after all, are booked on a flight the next morning. All John wants to do is sink down into his seat and go home–he's tired of being tired, and even more tired of being here. Once again he's fortunate enough to sit alone and spends the flight staring out the window into the inky black sky as the plane speeds back towards London.

Back towards Rose.

He’s not sure how that thought makes him feel now–he’s not sure what he should feel now. Let alone if his quickening pulse at the thought of talking to her again is due to anticipation and hope or dread at what she might say to him, or perhaps equal parts of each.

No sooner has the landing gear touched down on the tarmac than John's phone is in his hand. He turns it on to check the time, which is late–12am–and it's certainly far too late to call Rose. Not that he should call her–should he? She'd said they’d talk after he gets back, but did she even know when that would be? She clearly didn’t know his schedule, and doesn’t that mean he should be the one to call her? The thought makes him slightly queasy, and he closes his eyes for the first time since boarding the plane. His mind has been going in circles over all of this–over her–for more than a week now, and he feels almost dizzy. This has been so bloody exhausting. But he’ll call her, he knows that, it’s not even a question. Tomorrow then, maybe?

He nods to himself wordlessly. Tomorrow.

– It’s almost 2am when he arrives home after the tiresome ordeal of collecting his luggage from the baggage carousel and his car from the carpark. Plunking his bags down into the chilled dark hall of his flat, he realizes that it’s colder than he’d been expecting it to be, uncomfortably so–he’d clearly forgotten to program the heating back on before he left. Bloody brilliant, that–the latest in a long line of mistakes he’s made recently.

The next thing he notices is the same thing his eyes have hungrily sought out ever since things went all wrong with Rose: the voicemail light on his phone is blinking. It’s a steady and insistent little red beacon, and he disentangles his fingers from the strap of his bags and rushes towards it before even turning on the lights, wincing as he bangs his knee against the hard corner of an end table.

He hits play from muscle memory and waits, knowing the message won’t be from her but hoping nonetheless. He’s right, of course; it’s a message from Jack. He sighs, flicks on the light, and stops the replay before Jack finishes speaking. Jack wants to get together for drinks after work–of course he does. To find out about Chamonix, about Rose–everything John has questions about himself, in fact.

He flops onto his bed, not even removing his clothes, and falls into a dreamless sleep.

–

He wakes blearily a few hours later to the sound of his alarm–it’s Monday morning, a new day and a new week, and it’s time to head back to his office at the university. It feels a bit surreal–and he slowly realizes he has no idea what he even is supposed to do now. At first, he’d spent so long entirely focused on his trip to Chamonix, as if it were some grandiose event that would represent some sort of a new beginning in his life. And then he’d spent weeks trying not to think about it and what it meant that he didn’t want to go. He’d never really spent any time at all considering his return and that somehow this utterly brilliant beginning might feel instead like an ending–

Sighing, he cuts off his train of thought, annoyed at himself–at both his own blithering self-pity, and at the fact that he’s gotten himself into this whole… this whole damn situation, whatever the hell this was, in the first place. If he’s going to be this damn maudlin, he may as well wait and do it properly over drinks after work with Jack.

He brings a groggy hand to his forehead, hard enough that it thuds against his brow. He swipes it across his face with a sigh and slowly rises from bed. Pads across the cold kitchen floor in his bare feet to start a pot of coffee. Strips off his stale clothes from yesterday. Takes a quick, hot shower. Shaves. Brushes his teeth. Gets dressed. Pours his coffee in a travel mug. And then heads off to work. As usual.

The only call he makes that morning is to Jack. As much as he wants–needs–to call Rose, and as many times that morning as he looks down to check the time on his phone, and finds his fingers unconsciously navigating to his contact list and ghosting over her name, he stops himself. He needs time to think of what to say to her, to script it out in his mind so that he can get it right this time, whatever he ends up saying. He can’t help but wonder if maybe if he’d planned it out better the last time he’d called her, if he’d made it clear that he by far would have preferred to be with her than to go to France, then maybe their conversation would have ended differently. Maybe she would have let him help her… maybe he could have made things right between them–he’d have settled for even seeing her. He realizes that they haven’t spoken in close to a week now–and he hasn’t seen her in close to two, longer than they’ve ever gone without each other. Even just thinking about her absence gnaws at him, this hole inside him getting bigger and more numb with each passing day.

Jack picks up on the first ring and they make plans to meet up later that afternoon at their usual off-campus pub. Although talking about Chamonix is the last thing he wants to do–and the first thing he knows Jack will want to know about–he could use a drink. And a friend.

–

The afternoon sky has already started to darken into a somber, woolly grey when John finally arrives at the pub and opens the heavy wooden door. The warmth of the brightly lit interior fogs his glasses for a moment, and it’s such a stark contrast from the brittle cold of the outdoors. It takes him a minute to spot Jack sitting at the bar through the mixed crowd of university students and locals enjoying a football game on telly, but Jack waves to him and motions to the two ales sitting in front of him.

“You sounded like you needed one of these,” Jack says with a small chuckle, nodding to the ale as John jostles his way through the crowd and drops bonelessly down onto the stool beside Jack, his sigh inaudible through the din. “How’ve you been?”

John looks down at his drink and shrugs, fingering the edge of the paper coaster under his ale, already damp from the condensation on the glass. The whole situation feels a bit like deja vu, and he pauses, thinking back to the last time he was here, and with Jack nonetheless. When he was about to cancel his plans with Rose for a stupid art show–when he was still trying to find excuses to not tell her about Jeanne. And he could have told her then, couldn’t he? They’d still be friends, then. It wouldn’t have been too late, would it? He flicks his fingernail against the paper coaster under his glass, the cheap paper tearing under the strain. This happened the last time he was here too, didn’t it? He presses his lips together as a wave of revulsion washes over him. Good lord, he’d been ready to ditch her then, hadn’t he–oh he certainly hadn’t thought of it that way at the time, but he’d had a chance to be with her–she’d wanted him with her, and he’d been ready to throw that away. And for what? Bloody hell, he deserves this–deserves all of this, doesn’t he? No wonder she won’t talk to him. He doesn’t deserve her.

“You ok?”

John takes a long, deep swig of his ale and places it back on the bar, slowly swallowing a mouthful of the bitter hops. He keeps his eyes focused on the deep mahogany bar and tells Jack about… well, everything, really. Everything that matters, everything that’s been on his mind. He starts at the beginning, with a wrong turn taken down country roads on a snowy night. He tells Jack about falling that first day on the slopes with her… and falling on the ice with her when she’d taken him out for one of the most fun days he can remember… and again in the attic when he’d found her father’s patent documentation on Christmas and she’d bowled him over and they’d laughed… and how he’d just held her. Jack doesn’t say a word as John tells him about Weardale and Wilf and cooking and the old B&B where he’d had his own room and which had started to feel more like home than his own flat. His voice falters at times–she’d become one of his dearest friends, and reliving their closeness makes their distance now ache even more, the dull throb of the past week turning more searing with every word. He gets to the part about school applications and the tour at Jack’s university and pauses, his stomach sinking at the memory of that horrible day. He takes another sip of his ale and falls silent. Even talking about it makes him feel like he’s being dragged through it yet again, a viscid, prolonged torment that soaks deeper into every pore the more time his thoughts spend steeped in it.

John nurses his pint as the emotions threaten to overcome him. It isn’t until Jack’s even, quiet voice prompts him to continue that he manages to muster up the will to keep talking.

So John tells him about the chippy. About Luke. Running after her. How she needed time. He takes another gulp of ale and begins to tell Jack about Jimmy–backtracking a bit because he’d left out that part earlier in the story, and wanted to make sure Jack could appreciate exactly how rude Jimmy is. The very thought of the other man–if you could even call a boy his age a real man–ignites something inside John, and for the first time since he started his diatribe he tears his eyes from the bar to look up at Jack, his eyes blazing.

“And there’s this… this punk–”

He cuts himself off as his eyes fix on a point over Jack’s shoulder. A blonde head, silky golden strands hanging like a curtain over her profile. She’s not faced towards him, and she’s sitting on the other side of the pub… but he’d recognize her anywhere. Without finishing his thought he’s up and out of his barstool, propelling himself through the crowd, shouldering past strangers and not even caring, not able to take his eyes away from her. Not noticing until he’s just a metre away that she’s not alone… Jimmy’s sitting there too.

It’s clear she doesn’t see him approach until he’s at the edge of her table, she doesn’t even look up until he’s standing there, his mouth agape with something between a sigh and a smile, and he wonders if he looks half as dazed as he feels right now. His thoughts are muddled between the noise of the crowd and the surprise over seeing her… but she’s here, and that’s all that matters.

She looks up at him, almost a double take, and her eyes widen. He can’t tell if she’s happy or upset to see him, the obvious surprise on her face drowning out anything else she might be thinking. But she meets his eyes–she looks at him, she doesn’t turn away–and that’s more than he’s had in over a week and he’ll take it, it’s enough.

“Hey,” she says, her voice so quiet he can barely hear her, her eyes guarded but gentle.

“Hi,” he replies. He takes in a quick breath and looks stupidly from Rose to Jimmy and back to Rose again. Panic flares inside him as he realizes he has no idea what to say now. Jimmy’s glaring at him over the rim of his glass and doesn’t say a word. Rose swallows.

“So…um, when did you get back?”

“Last night–well, this morning, really. The flight was delayed.”

She looks down at the table and nods, and they fall into silence once again. He’s still standing over her, and he can’t quite see her face to read her expression. There’s a long pause and his stomach quivers nervously, every synapse in his brain racing with the thought that he should say something–anything. He attempts a smile which feels more like it’s ended up a grimace, but she’s not even looking at him and oh no this is not going how he’d hoped–whatever it was he’d been hoping for.

“I was… I was going to call you tonight actually. So… um, it’s good… seeing you here. I’m–I’m here with Jack, you … uh, you remember him” he says. She looks up, and he motions idly over to the bar with his head, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Did you… were the trails good?”

John pauses, his eyes still fixed on her, his pulse thudding so hard he can almost hear his heartbeat buzzing in his ears over the sounds of the match. He makes a small shrugging motion with his shoulders and shakes his head in an attempt at saying no, wanting to sit down beside her, take her hands into his own and tell her that nothing was good about his trip, that nothing’s been good for over a week now–

Jimmy laughs, a snide, bitter sound that’s reminiscent of a snort. John’s eyes flick to him reflexively and finds the punk smirking at him, his smile downright lewd. He looks back to Rose, still staring at him, and he loses all train of thought.

“Um… I can… I can call you. Tonight even, or um, tomorrow, if that’s good. We can talk… if you want… about the paperwork. And–and maybe get that signed?” he says, the words racing from his lips and god he can’t believe he’s talking about paperwork of all things. He should have thought more about this, what he would say to her–but all that matters is that he cannot do this, he can’t have this conversation, not here. Not with Jimmy sitting right there, the boy’s gaze steady and growing even more hostile.

She nods again, and he slowly turns and begins to walk away. His head is thrumming with everything he didn’t say, should have said, and he curses himself for going over there at all when she was so clearly–

“John, wait!” he hears her call, and he turns around, and she’s stood and is walking towards him, looking as uncertain as he feels. He sighs, moves over an empty table that hasn’t yet been bussed–messy chip trays and empty ale glasses litter the surface, but it’s as close to a semblance of privacy as they’re going to get, and he’ll gladly take that, too.

As soon as she stops in front of him, his eyes search her face, and the words rush out unbidden.

“I miss you,” he says, his voice a whisper.

Her eyes drop then, her breath hitching as she fingers the edge of the shellacked wooden table. Her thumb finds a divot in it, a blemish worn down by time, and she traces it gently with the tips of her fingers, almost transfixed. Her mouth opens slightly, and he can’t help but stare as she moistens her lips.

"I miss you, too," she answers, her voice soft, almost hesitant, as if she's not sure the words would be welcome.

Something twists inside him and he takes a step towards her then. His fingers skate slowly and gently along the smooth surface of the table, towards her own. Her breath catches slightly and her movement stills, her fingers pulling back almost imperceptibly. He notices though–how could he not notice, when it comes to her of all people.

He takes a deep breath and flicks his eyes up to hers. She opens her mouth, her lips parting as if she’s trying to well up the courage to say something.

“Food’s here,” a familiar and unwelcome voice announces. Jimmy comes up alongside her–much too close to her. “We should eat.”

Rose’s head darts towards Jimmy, and she nods.

"I’ll call you tomorrow?" John asks.

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment before falling away as she slowly turns back to her table. As he and Rose walk away, Jimmy’s hand comes to rest on the small of her back.

And then once again she's sitting there, wedged next to Jimmy at a small table in the pub which has been John’s favorite for more than a decade. Someplace he enjoys, someplace he would have wanted to take her. He feels Jimmy's eyes on him, almost belligerent in their intensity, and the boy slowly stretches his arm around the back of Rose's chair, before casually picking up a chip with his free hand and popping it leisurely into his mouth. John can't tell if she even notices, her eyes are fixed on her salad. But his jaw tightens, and the room suddenly feels suffocating. He makes his way back towards the bar, much more slowly than he came, and the heat of the place has become oppressive. Jack’s staring at him, nearly expressionless, except for his eyes full of silent understanding.

"Let's go," John says, heading towards the door, barely sparing a glance for Jack and his half-full glass of ale still resting on the bar. – "So um… how was Chamonix?" Jack asks, as they walk down the street away from that bloody pub.

"Fine," John mutters. "Expensive."

Jack falls quiet and they walk on in silence for another few blocks.

"I can't believe the nerve of him. He didn't even say hello–and I was the one trying to be polite! And the way he grabbed her, steered her even, like she's some sort of plaything to him, like she's a toy and he owns her–and she–she let him!"

"Who?"

"Rose, of course. And that … that idiot," John says, his voice rising and catching slightly on the last syllable. He sounds a little more brusque than he means to, but damn it to hell he’s annoyed at having to state the obvious. He pulls his coat closer in around him, the winter night air bitter and harsh against his skin, and continues to seethe inwardly.

Jack shrugs.

"Didn't look that way to me. Looked like he was staking his claim. If she talks about you even half as much as you've been talking about her all night, kid's probably a little edgy."

John sighs, annoyed at Jack's obvious misinterpretation of the situation–particularly at the implication that someone like Jimmy Stone has a claim to stake at all–and at that grabby, rude, obnoxious punk.

They walk, neither one speaking, for another few blocks, before Jack breaks the curtain of silence that's fallen between them.

"So have you told her you're in love with her yet?"

John stops short, staring at Jack, inhaling sharply at his friend’s words.

"And I'm not talking about Jeanne," Jack continues more softly. “Although believe me, I’m dying to hear about how that turned out too.”

"I..." John says, his voice faltering, his words trailing off as he realizes he has no idea how to respond to that. He looks at the pavement, at the dirty snow and salt trampled under their shoes, and sighs deeply. “I don’t know what I can do, Jack. I don’t know how I can fix this.”

Jack looks at his friend for a long moment. John waits for some words of wisdom, or encouragement, or something, but Jack remains silent, his eyes full of empathy. After a moment he puts his arm around John’s shoulders and nudges him down the street, away from the pub.

“C’mon, John. I’ve got a good bottle of scotch at home.”

–

He enters his flat just after dark, after another hour of reliving the past few weeks in conversation with Jack had made him tired, and long for nothing more than his bed. No sooner does he flick the light on in his front hall than his home phone begins to ring.

He bangs his knee once again on that damned end table, but ignores the pain in his leg, and hurriedly takes the last few strides towards his phone in the kitchen. He recognizes the area code immediately–1388, more specifically Weardale–and his heart leaps. He grabs for the phone on the very last ring, putting it up to his ear just before it would have gone to voicemail.

“Hello?”

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Ten/Rose. John Smith is desperate to impress Jeanne Poisson - the girl of his dreams - by learning to ski, but his ski lessons at an out-of-the-way ski lodge change things in ways he never could have expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this... there was some negativity that made me not want to write much for a couple of weeks, and then after I started feeling better about that, I was back on rotation and starting to deal with residency interviews. But this chapter is complete now yay - I hope you like it! =)
> 
> * * *

John’s heart stutters–he knows from the area code that the caller can only be one of two people. And that means there’s a fifty percent chance it’s her, _oh God maybe it’s her_ , maybe she’s gone back to her flat and sent Jimmy away and wants to talk to him–maybe she didn’t want to wait for him to call her tomorrow like he’d promised and wants to sort things out with him–

“…hello?” John repeats. His voice sounds breathy and forced–too eager to come off as casual even to his own ears. He inhales deeply, attempting to _not_ sound so desperate, and readjusts the phone from its awkward cradle between his chin and his jaw in order to hold it more firmly against his ear, like a lifeline.

“Hello… uh, is this John?”

John’s heart sinks upon hearing the obviously male voice. He blinks down again at his caller ID, still illuminated on the phone’s cradle in the otherwise dim room, and catches the full number this time instead of just the first few digits.

Ah.

It’s not Rose’s cell number, but it’s still a number he still knows by heart.

“Wilf?” he asks, trying to not let his disappointment seep into his voice–it _is_ good to hear from him too, after all, they haven't spoken since–

John swallows. “I– um… how are you?”

“Oh, fine… fine–I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“No, not at all… is everything alright?” he asks, voice rising in slight alarm. Was something wrong? What if… What if something happened to Rose? No–Wilf wouldn’t have said he was fine. Rose _must_ be fine. John exhales, the panic dissipating with his breath.

“Yes… and you? Is everything OK, John?”

There’s something in Wilf’s tone–something beyond casual–something compassionate and concerned, that makes John pause, almost startled. He’s not quite sure why he finds Wilf’s question so surprising. He’s not sure what he was expecting at _all_ from Wilf, in fact–might he be angry with John? Or disappointed? Or perhaps Rose hadn’t told him anything at all. Maybe that’s why Wilf sounds nearly sympathetic… maybe–maybe Wilf doesn’t know about what happened between him and Rose?

It suddenly occurs to John that perhaps Rose wouldn’t _want_ to share the details of her personal life with her grandfather–maybe Wilf doesn’t know anything about what happened at the chip shop last week. He lets out a breath as hope and a small bit of relief begin to uncoil from the tension in his posture–maybe he hasn’t destroyed everything after all. But this thought soon twists back in on itself and settles, sickening and heavy, in his stomach. If Wilf doesn’t know, and John doesn't say anything–well, that would be another deception, wouldn’t it? This is exactly what brought him to this point to begin with: withholding something that the other person might want to know–and yet here he is, and the first, eager thought to come to his mind is to do the same bloody thing again. God, has he learned nothing at all? Unsettled, he runs a hand through his hair, and takes a deep breath.

 

But even so… now _wouldn’t_ be the time to discuss it with Wilf, would it? Particularly if Rose hadn’t told him anything–maybe she doesn’t _want_ Wilf to know? Talking to Wilf about why Rose has distanced herself from him might only mess things up even more between them–and just when he has finally spoken with her and they’ve agreed to talk the next day. And maybe he’s reading too much into this conversation to begin with–maybe Wilf _does_ know. John hasn’t elicited the reason for the phone call yet–maybe... maybe it’s a not a friendly phone call after all.

Maybe Wilf is calling to tell him to come get his belongings which are still in his old room in Weardale, maybe he’s calling to tell John to get them and never come back, and to stay away from Rose–to leave her to be happy with Jimmy. _Jimmy_... his jaw clenches at the thought of him. That stupid, handsy, possessive jerk...

No… it’s not his place to say anything. Not yet. Not until he knows what Wilf wants to say to him. John sucks in another breath.

“Are you still there?” asks Wilf, startling John out of his thoughts.

“Of course! And everything’s brilliant. _Molto bene._ ” He forces a smile as he stands alone in his cold dark kitchen. He catches his reflection and drops his grin, which looks strained and fake in the dull sheen of his stainless steel fridge. “What… um,” he inhales deeply. “What can I help you with?”

“Ah… good, glad to hear you're doing well,” Wilf says, and there’s a momentary lull in the conversation, as if the older man is unconvinced. “I just–well, I’m just calling for some advice, if it’s no bother, about the remote you gave me for Christmas. I’m having a bit of trouble getting it to click on the downstairs lights–I changed the batteries but nothing happens when I push the power button.”

John exhales a small sigh, relieved that Wilf doesn’t seem to be angry at him. That… that’s _good_ , isn’t it?

“Might be a loose connection,” John murmurs. “Did you want me to come up and take a look at it?”

There’s a long pause as he waits what seems like an eternity for Wilf to respond. John inhales nervously, leaning against the kitchen wall, as his eyes skitter across the darkened, cold countertops of the empty room.

“Were… you planning on coming up here again? I’d hate to put you out of your way–”

John sighs. Wilf knows. Of course he knows–

“It’s no bother at all, Wilf. Never a bother–truly,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. “How about this weekend–Friday evening? Same time as usual?”

“That’d work fine.” Wilf pauses again, and continues, his voice more careful and measured. “Rose won’t be here… she’s in London–”

“Yeah. I um… I saw her. Tonight, I mean… I saw her tonight. She was… she was out for a bite with a friend. Um… Jimmy. She–she’s in classes here now.”

Wilf clears his throat.

“Oh! That… that’s good. I’m glad. I hope you… well, I hope she’s settling in then.”

“Yeah,” John’s breath catches on that that word and he takes a deep breath. “She seems to be, yeah.”

There’s another long pause.

“Well only if you don’t mind, John–but I’ll see you this weekend then. If anything comes up, or if you need anything–you let me know, OK?”

“Yeah,” John whispers, forcing another unconvincing smile for the benefit of absolutely no-one, not even himself. “OK, Wilf. Thank you.”

He clicks off the phone and replaces it on the charger. The little light on the phone fades down and once again he’s standing in the relative dark of the kitchen, the faint glow that filters into the room from the entry light illuminating things only slightly. He stands in the kitchen a bit longer, arms crossed and staring at his reflection.

–

She doesn’t call for the rest of the evening, of course, not that he expects her to–hopes, of course, but she hasn’t contacted him unprompted since the chip shop, and he wouldn’t expect her to now. Nonetheless, he checks to make sure the ring volume on his mobile is all the way up, and keeps it close at hand just in case. He spends the rest of the evening at his desk grading physics lab reports, trying not to think about her… and her with Jimmy… and remembering the boy’s arm around her shoulders, his hand on the gentle curvature at the small of her back. He imagines his own hand there instead, how she’d surely lean in to his touch, how the movement of her hips would feel against his hand as she walks… then he remembers Jack’s words about Jimmy ‘staking his claim’ and the concerned, almost sympathetic tone in Wilf’s voice. He grits his teeth and messily shoves the lab reports off to a corner of his desk, dropping his head into his hands and wondering what the _hell_ she sees in that punk.

After a dreamless sleep, he wakes the next morning not quite refreshed, his head buzzing with equal parts nervous energy and anticipation. This is the first time he's known that she wants to talk to him–in more than a week.

They hadn't agreed when he would call her to get the paperwork signed—and more importantly, notarized. He settles on 9am–historically, that's a good time to text her. She tends to be available around then–she’s had her morning coffee and run any morning errands, but hasn’t yet started her lessons. He nods to himself: 9am it is.

When the clock hits 8:58am, he takes a deep breath and reaches for his phone. He navigates to his favorites list on his phone and grins softly at her contact photo–he hasn’t changed it, it's still the selfie he took of the two of them in front of the fireplace. He's struck by the way she's leaning into him, her cheek pressed to his own, her lips parted in a soft smile... just centimetres away from his own. His finger traces the contour of her cheek in the photo and he wonders what would have happened, had he turned his face towards hers, just a little more... he swallows at the thought, a frisson running down his spine and settling low and warm, deep in his belly.

He presses her number and smiles gently as the call begins to connect. He feels so different–so much lighter–from the last time he called her... _this_ time, she's expecting him to call her... wanting him to call her.

 _This_ time, they'll get a chance to really talk.

He clears his throat as the phone begins to ring, brushing a hand through his hair as if she were there to see it–despite his best plans to the contrary, why does he never plan out what he's going to say to her ahead of time? After the third ring, he wonders if she's heard her phone buzz with his call–if she'll pick up at all.

After the fourth ring, it goes to voicemail.

" _You've reached Rose, leave a message!_ "

He ends the call before the voicemail beeps–had she forgotten? Or maybe she wasn’t expecting him to call until later? Not for the first time, he inwardly kicks himself for not clarifying when he should–

His phone interrupts his thoughts, chirping with an incoming text message and he smiles broadly–it’s her, and she’s–

_sorry I’m in class right now_

His brow furrows and he swallows down his surprise. He’s happy she texted him back, of course, and so quickly, too… it's just... he used to know things like that about her schedule–when her lessons would be, what she’d be doing. He hadn't even known she'd started her classes this soon–let alone what exactly she was taking. When had she even started up with them? His mind races with questions best posed at a different time, and his fingers fly over the keypad to respond to her. He’s momentarily tempted to revive an old joke they’d had about students and cell phones, as she’d once teased him about his own irritation as an instructor when students were distracted by their gadgets, but he hesitates. So much has changed between them, and there’s no telling how she’d take that now… if she’d even know that was a joke at all.

_No problem–want me to call back later?_

 

There… that’s a safer choice. As soon as he sends it, however, he's worried she'll say no–that she'll tell him she’s changed her mind, that he should just send the paperwork along to her and she’ll handle the matter on her own from here on out. And maybe he should have just _said_ he was going to call back, or asked for a good time to call, or–

His train of thought is interrupted as the phone chirps in his hand again, and his eyes instantly and instinctively fix on the screen.

_how about we meet at the bank at noon and get it signed by the notary then?_

He smiles down at his phone, and quickly replies.

 _yes_ : _)_

–

He arrives at the bank early, pacing in front of the front desk, attempting a casual posture that he knows full well is undermined by his clenched shoulders, the tension winding through them so tightly that he feels like he might snap in two, his hands shoved deep in his pockets as if to brace himself. He runs over the plan in his head for what feels like the hundredth time that morning. First, he’d see Rose and smile, say hello. Simple enough, he can do that. Then maybe a hug?–or maybe _not_ a hug–he’d have to play that one by ear, surely. Of course he’d ask her about her classes, and her flat. And he wouldn’t mention Jimmy–no reason to give _that_ pratany attention in the conversation. He’d make sure tell her about helping Wilf–she wouldn’t mind that, would she?

_… would she?_

He stops his pacing as he realizes he’s not certain. _Hopefully_ not… but he should tell her. She should know, she should have a chance to let _him_ know if she doesn’t want him spending so much time at her home any longer. He wouldn’t blame her, after all. It would break him but… she should have that chance. He owes that to her.

He swallows, trying to force himself away from that line of thinking and onto happier thoughts. Alright then… and after the paperwork was signed… maybe ask her to lunch? He swallows. Oh no. Maybe not lunch. Their last meal had been a disaster–maybe that would be moving too quickly. Coffee instead, perhaps? Maybe coffee. But coffee at _noon_? She usually only has a cup in the morning–he knows this, and she knows he knows this. Would that invitation annoy her, make her think he hadn’t been paying attention, or doesn’t care about her habits? Or… maybe her habits have changed now that she’s studying and in school? She’d understand he just wants to spend time with her, wouldn’t she? He sighs, exhaling slowly through pursed lips.

The front door chimes at 12:01pm, and he looks up, his breath catching as she walks in through a blast of cold air. She’s wearing jeans and a brand new backpack, her hair down and tousled. He’s frozen in place–she looks _gorgeous_ , and her eyes flick up to meet his in a silent hello–which is just as well since he’s just forgotten everything he’d planned on saying anyway. They stand like that, eyes locked and perfectly still, until he realizes the door is still open and looks up to see Jimmy there too, standing right behind her, _literally_ letting a chill into the room with his very presence. He can feel the blood rising to the tips of his ears and it suddenly feels very warm in the bank lobby. Bloody _hell_ , can’t that boy leave her alone for a single minute? Or maybe… he thinks, maybe she _asked_ him to come? His breath catches at the thought– _would_ she have wanted Jimmy there? She’d said she missed him… they’d agreed to talk, hadn’t they? He flicks his eyes from Jimmy and gazes questioningly back at Rose, who is watching him with wide eyes. There’s something unreadable in her expression, something that strikes him as almost apologetic, and he’s seen that look before–when she’d hurt her knee on the draglift in Weardale and they’d had to cut his lesson short. And he knows without a shadow of a doubt in that moment that Jimmy must have invited himself along. They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, while Jimmy stands a metre away, arms crossed and staring sullenly at John.

“Hey,” she whispers.

“Hi,” John says.

“Thank you for setting up–“

“Thank you for–“

They say, tripping over each other’s words, and he chuckles, looking up at her.

“Any time, Rose,” he murmurs, and her eyes drop and she gives a half-smile as he says her name.

They stand there, half-looking at each other and half-looking at the floor for a long moment. John clears his throat. What was he going to ask about? He begins to panic at the blankness of his mind until he notices her backpack. Of course–classes. He smiles warmly at her and nods at her backpack.

“What classes are you taking?”

She shrugs. “Just some basic classes, it’s nothing much… English, maths, you know,” she says, ducking her head.

He’s about to tell her that it’s _not_ nothing much, that it’s brilliant and she’s brilliant, and that he’s so, _so_ proud of her when the bank notary comes out into the lobby and calls them back into her office.

Everything in the office is posh and expensive–imposingly so–with a large, glossy mahogany desk surrounded by several oversized plush chairs. The notary is a well-dressed young woman with a serious face who settles down primly behind her desk, clasping her manicured hands in front of her and nodding to each of them to sit down. Rose settles in to one of the chairs and gives the notary a small smile. John gently grins over at her, noting that the chair she chose  
is upholstered with small damask roses, and despite the awkwardness between them, he is just about to remark on this just to share something– _anything_ –lighthearted between them again when–

“I’m fine standing,” says Jimmy from the doorway, and John can’t help rolling his eyes slightly as he takes a seat himself, although Rose doesn’t seem to notice his reaction.

John pulls the patent papers out of his jacket pocket and Rose reads through the document, signing at the bottom of each page as the notary observes her. On the back page, John motions for Rose to sign, and adds his signature next to hers as her agent, then hands the packet back to the notary.

“We’ll review the paperwork to make sure everything is in order and then submit it to the patent office by the end of business today. The charge will be £100,” the woman says, as she stamps the signature page with her notary seal.

He hears Rose gasp and feels her eyes fly instantly towards him. He gives her a quick, reassuring grin in return as his heart begins to race–he’d forgotten about the fee. But she needn’t worry.

He leans forward in his chair, hands clasped confidently before him on the desk and flashes a self-assured grin at the woman. It could be his imagination, he thinks, but Rose seems to look away, her head turning away from him. “I’m a client here,” he says.

The notary smiles back, nonplussed. “I know, sir. That’s a discount from the £150 we charge non-clients.”

“Is it due today? The whole amount?” Rose asks, leaning forward with her brows drawn together, and for the very first time since entering the office she looks decidedly uncomfortable.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” the notary says gently.

John sucks in a breath and nods. This is his fault–yet _another_ thing that is his fault, as if he hadn’t yet assembled a varied and extensive collection of cock-ups already. Dammit, even when he tries to _help_ her he ends up hurting her–maybe she’d be better off without him. Maybe she’d even be better off with _Jimmy_ of all people.

He swallows.

No.

 _No_ .

He’ll fix this. He has to fix this. He quickly calculates how much he’ll have left in his own account after paying his rent for the month and nods at the notary. “OK, just take it from my savings.”

Rose’s head pops up, alarmed.

“No, you can’t–”

“It’s no problem, Rose.”

“I’ll pay you back–I can even pay part now, I just need to get to the cashpoint–“

“Why don’t you wait ‘til after your money comes in when we sell the patent, how about that? It’s really no bother at all. I promise.”

She pauses and considers this–and John’s heart continues to race, half convinced she’s going to say no, that she wants to leave here and be _done_ with him. As done as she _can_ be with him until the patent sells, anyway. He glances up at Jimmy in the doorway to find the boy’s eyes are trained on Rose, expectant and waiting, and the notary looks down politely at the packet and flips through the paperwork, clearly attempting to give them time to resolve this.

Finally, after a long moment, Rose looks up at him, her eyes guarded, and nods slowly. John hears a sigh, almost a hiss, of exasperation and looks up at Jimmy, who for once is not glaring at him… he’s glaring at _Rose_.

“Splendid,” the notary says, with a bright smile. She rises from her chair and ushers them out the door and back towards the front lobby.

As they reach the entrance, Rose shrugs on her backpack. Jimmy continues to stand there sullenly–and my _God_ does that boy only have one expression? John ignores the boy, turning his back towards him, and instead focuses his attention on Rose, who meets his gaze with raw sincerity.

“I couldn’t have done this without you… I wouldn’t have even thought of patenting this. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me, of course I’ll help you. Anytime.” His voice nearly catches on the swell of emotion rising in his chest.

There’s a pause and her eyes drop to the floor. His heart stutters as he realizes she’s most likely about to leave, to turn around and walk out the door, and away from him– _again_. His mouth goes dry and his mind races as he remembers the way he felt when she ran off from the chippy without a second glance back at him. But she’s still here, she’s not moving away from him yet… and there’s something he’d planned on saying, wasn’t there? There’s something he’s forgetting, something important he wanted to say, that she needed to hear, but it’s escaped his mind and… Wilf!

“Wilf… um,” he says as her head darts up at the mention of her grandfather’s name. “He… he said he was having problems with the remote I gave him for Christmas. I told him I would–well, if it’s ok with you, I mean–I told him I would come up this weekend. To fix it.”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “’Course it’s ok with me.”

“I just… I just didn’t know if–” and he’s lost for words and she’s just standing there staring at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence, and _oh God_ she’s not going to make him say it, is she? In front of Jimmy who is staring daggers at him, in front of everyone in this bustling lobby with the door several metres away from them, blasting cold air at them every time someone opens it, and he can’t think and–

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she takes a step closer to him. Even without him saying it, the soft expression in her eyes tells him that she knew what he _meant_ , what he would have said if he could.

“John, you’re one of my best friends, yeah? And you have done so much for me, you–” she falters as he takes a step in towards her, wanting to just be _near_ her. “No–no, let me finish, ok? You’ve done so much for me and I’ve meant everything I’ve–”

She takes a breath, dropping her eyes. “You never need to ask. Doesn’t matter when. Anytime you want, you just let me or gramps know, and you go up there, ok? You’re always welcome. Always.”

She raises her eyes again and her gaze is serious, steady. He nods quickly, almost dumbly, in response, and her eyes soften at his silent agreement. Any response is caught in his throat as she stands there, looking as if she’s unsure as to whether to take a step towards him or to pull away from him. She starts to inhale a long breath, and he’s not sure whether she’s going to say something else–maybe goodbye, _hopefully_ not goodbye, not yet–and why can’t hethink of a _single_ thing he’d so carefully planned on saying?

“Let’s go,” Jimmy says, interrupting his thoughts. John looks up at him to find Jimmy staring at him with his typical brooding glare–no surprise there. John doesn’t respond to him at all, and instead looks back down at Rose, his gaze tender.

“I’ll text you later, ok?”

“Yeah,” she says, her face relaxing slightly with a small, tentative smile. John can’t explain it even to himself, but it feels like a weight has been lifted from him, almost like they’ve reached some sort of a wordless understanding. It’s not quite a clear way forward, not yet, but it’s more progress than he’s made in a week and he smiles at her in earnest, grateful to at least have come _this_ far.

“C’mon Rose, I’m starving,” Jimmy says, opening the door and letting in another blast of arctic chill, his eyes trained on John the whole time. By his motion, John gets the impression that the boy had expected Rose to turn heel and come directly to his side: but instead, Rose stays still, looking at John for a moment longer. Jimmy’s gaze flicks over to her, questioning at first, but then hardening. He glares back at John with something more than his usual sneer–something almost cruel.

“I’d really love some _chips_. There’s a chippy near your school, not far off, isn’t there?” Jimmy finishes.

Jimmy’s voice remains deceptively light, but his glare spits out the last words like a challenge at John’s feet, and John’s smile drops as Jimmy’s words register. A smirk rises on the boy’s face, but John’s first thought is of Rose. He looks back down at her and finds her eyes trained on the floor, her smile gone. She swallows.

“Yeah. Best get going,” she whispers, and before he can even register what’s happened she’s out the door, walking away from him.

The door closes behind them, and John stands still, watching them as they walk together down the street.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51325>


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to BetaBabe fadewithfury!

Snow still covers the landscape Friday afternoon on his drive up to Weardale. The thick white patches of frost and ice are just now beginning to thaw, receding from their claim on the ground as the first green hints of spring coax their way up from the earth. Aside from the subtle seasonal shift noticed from his car window, the commute itself feels remarkably like any of his other trips up there–so much so that he almost lets himself believe that it really is a typical weekend visit. For a fleeting moment he can just about convince himself that everything will be normal when he arrives–that Rose will be there, that he’s going up there for yet another a ski lesson with her–that she’d want to ski with him at all, in fact. That she’d give him one of the smiles he can always count on when he helps Wilf put together a meal–John’s lips quirk up in a smile of his own just thinking about her, how she’d always give him a lingering hug when he’d make something new and ask him about his recipes even though he knows full well her own interest in cooking is minimal at best. But as much as he’d like to lose himself in those memories and pretend that everything is the same, he knows she won’t be there... that everything has changed now. The idea of her absence from the place feels wrong somehow, and empty–as if her very presence is part and parcel of her family’s lands and the place shouldn’t even be there–like he shouldn’t be there–if she isn’t there too. His smile fades, and he wonders what it will be like to spend a weekend there without her.

Another weekend without her at all, in fact.

He’d texted her as promised after he’d left the bank that day. Hello–How are you–Did you have a nice afternoon… Awkward pleasantries that at least she’s readily answering now, but her responses are still idle, polite. Hello–fine thank you how are you?–yes how was yours? And as much as he’s happy about the progress, it’s still nothing like their old banter, which only serves as a reminder of the distance that’s grown between them these past few weeks. And with every kilometer he drives further north, his mind keeps wandering back down to London, knowing that she’s there instead.

Knowing who she’s likely with.

He clenches his jaw, thinking about how the smile dropped from Rose’s face and how she stared at the marble floor of the bank like she couldn’t even bear to look at him when that–that punk smirked and suggested going to the chip shop where Rose had found out about Chamonix. Oh, Jimmy knew exactly what he was doing. That wasn’t a comment to hurt John, no–that was a comment to hurt Rose. Why in hell would she insist on spending– wasting–her time on someone who is so intent on hurting her, of not taking her feelings into consideration?

It’s not like he would ever hurt her that way–or at least not mean to, he’s quick to amend his own thought. With him, it was unintentional–she means everything to him, she has to know that–of course he’d never mean to hurt her. Especially not over a crush or a ridiculous trip to a ski resort. Jimmy’s words though… those were deliberately meant to cause her pain.

But Rose didn’t even seem angry at Jimmy–it was like she didn’t even care! John’s not upset with her, obviously–not like he’d have any right to be, mind–but still he glares at the road. She won’t let him back in, not really, not yet–but Jimmy? She’ll let Jimmy get that close to her even though he clearly couldn’t care less about her feelings? Couldn’t she see what a good for nothing tosser he is?

John lets out a long hiss of breath and turns on some music–loudly–and forces himself to concentrate on his driving.

He arrives just before dusk and drives past the lilting curve in the road that leads to the B&B, instead making a detour to the town center. John plans to make tomorrow’s breakfast since he’s staying the night–cooking at least one meal to save Wilf some work is the absolute least he can do. He knows full well that Wilf is unlikely to charge him for his stay–it’s been weeks since the last time he was given a bill for his room, and considering he’s here to do a favour for Wilf, he suspects the older man will refuse to charge him this time too. Turning into the main street of the town, he stops his car into the graveled carpark just outside Stone General Store to pick up some milk and bananas. That’s the one benefit to Jimmy being in London right now, John thinks wryly–at least he doesn’t stand a chance of running into that wanker in his family’s shop.

John plods his way up the stairs to the Stone General Store entrance, and the door to the shop chimes merrily as he opens it. He steps over the threshold with his usual jaunt, flashing a smile at Bev behind the register. Her eyes first widen in surprise and then narrow as she sees him, her gaze tracking him as he walks brightly past the counter and gives her a friendly wave.

“Good evening, Bev!”

She doesn’t respond, and as he grabs a carton of milk he turns around to find her still staring mutely at him, arms crossed tight in front of her chest in a way that is almost antagonistic. In that moment, it strikes John that her expression bears an unfortunate similarity to the one her son normally wears, and he swallows, having never seen that particular look on her face before. She’s usually always so friendly… charming, even. He hesitates, confused–surely he couldn’t have done anything that offended her in the past minute he’s been in the shop? The sign on the door says they’re open–and it’s far too early in the evening for them to close, anyway. Why on earth could she possibly be glaring at him like that?

“Is… everything OK?” he asks.

She shrugs in a small, tense motion.

“Fine. Didn’t expect to see you back here.”

He wants to make a joke–about his presence being appreciated–but something about the way she’s staring at him stops him in his tracks.

“Wilf needed some help with some electronics,” he says, feeling lame even trying to explain his presence or his seeming need to justify it at all–to Bev, no less, who is usually so chatty and good-natured.

“That’ll be £1.99,” she says, still staring at him. He hesitates, wondering what kind of response that is to a comment about electronics of all things, not sure what she’s even talking about until he looks down at the carton of milk he’s holding in his hand.

“Ah,” he says, smiling anew, and it feels forced, plastered on to his face like that–and why on earth is she still glaring at him? He hands over the money and she wordlessly deposits it in the cash register, finally tearing her eyes from him as she puts the money in the drawer and uses the tip of one finger to slide a paper bag over to him, barely touching it, as if it were soiled somehow. Which it might be, judging from the look on her face. Right then. He supposes he’s meant to bag his own shopping today.

“Knew you used to hang about here because of Rose,” she says, almost casually–but although she’s not staring daggers at him any longer, her breezy tone is at odds with her rigid posture, her shoulders set in a challenge. “You know she’s moved to London now. With my son.”

At these last words she looks up… and there’s that glare again. His smile drops and his mouth fumbles open, wondering what he can even say–is this really about Rose, and Jimmy no less? Of course he knows Rose is with Jimmy–he might hate it–he might know that Rose can do far better and be waiting for her to realize this herself and ditch the arsehole–but for now, of course, he can read between the lines clearly enough.

“Quite,” he nods, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Well I’ll just be–” he says, motioning with his thumb back towards the entrance and his car, but she’s already turned her back to him. He backs towards the door slowly, nearly stumbling over his feet as he reaches the threshold, and makes his way back to the car, carton of milk still in hand. It’s only when he’s turned on the engine of his car that it registers that he forgot to pick up the bananas. He thinks the better of going back into the store–regular pancakes tomorrow will do just fine–and backs out of the carpark, heading slowly back to the B&B.

–

He arrives at the inn just before dinner and hauls his duffel bag into the front entrance–the warm smell of roasted lamb, honeyed carrots, and oven-hot potatoes enveloping him like a fond hug as soon as he opens the door. Oh, how he’s missed this place. Wilf greets him with a handshake and a smile which he returns in earnest, and he insists on setting the table for Wilf and the handful of other guests here for dinner this evening. He doesn’t set Rose’s usual place at the table–clearly she won’t be there, which is hardly unusual as she often has–or had–duties at Swinhope Moor that often kept her out long past supper time. Even so, he dislikes the thought of someone else sitting in her place and skips past it as he’s setting out plates, keeping her spot untouched.

He’s even able to sort out the main reason for his visit here before the meal is ready–John was right, the problem with the remote control was indeed a loose connection, an easy fix that takes him mere minutes.

Dinner–a regional variation on Shepherd’s Pie–is meaty and hot, and John eats more than his fill, making a mental note to ask Wilf exactly how he manages to get the lamb so succulent that each bite tastes as if it were steeped in broth, yet minced so finely that it nearly dissolves on his tongue. The other guests include a couple from Durham and a family passing through from Norfolk. The couple is there for skiing lessons, which draws John’s mind back to Rose, and he wonders if they know Rose… if she’s taught them in the past. If she’d be teaching them now if she weren’t in London…

Wilf explains the history of Shepherd’s Pie to the guests–how minced pies with shredded lamb had always been a local favorite, and how potatoes had become popular in the north during the 18th century. John makes an offhand comment that this is about how long Wilf’s family has owned the B&B’s property–but instead of taking this reference as an opportunity to talk more about his family’s history in Weardale and local history as he is often wont to do, Wilf just smiles and nods thoughtfully.

After the meal, John clears the table and the guests head upstairs. He brings a stack of the dinner plates into the kitchen, wordlessly grabbing a dishrag to dry the dishes as Wilf finishes washing them. They work in silence standing side by side… except for the absence of Rose it feels like old times.

Drying the last dish and placing it on the rack, he stands with his back to the counter and arms crossed, absorbed in his thoughts. The first time he’d helped out in the kitchen, she’d been here… that was the morning after he met her. His lips quirk up almost ruefully at the memory. He’d dried the dishes that time too…

“Join me for an ale?” Wilf asks, pulling him out of his reverie. He looks up to find Wilf taking two bottles of John’s favorite brew from the refrigerator and turning to face John, holding them up as if he already knows what the response will be.

“Don’t mind if I do,” John says, taking one of the proffered bottles from Wilf, popping the cap off and taking a slow sip.

His eyes flick back up to the older man, who’s looking at him with a measured, almost concerned gaze. Wilf nods towards the sitting room and John follows, taking a seat on the blue sofa in front of the fireplace as Wilf takes his usual spot in his brown easy chair. John’s eyes drop to his lap–the last time he had been seated here like this, he had been visiting Wilf and Rose for Christmas… that was barely a month ago and yet it feels so, so far in the past. They’re silent for a long moment, and the crackle and pop of the glowing logs in the fireplace remains the only sound in the room.

Wilf takes a sip of his ale and sets it down, resting it on the arm of his chair. He idly brushes a few droplets of condensation from around the base of the bottle as he stares at the fire, not even noticing the moisture sinking into the dark chocolate fabric of the chair, darkening it with wet splotches.

“You all right, then?” Wilf asks, casting a sidelong glance to John.

John nods, taking a long sip of his own beverage. “Yeah,” he says finally, the affirmation coming out as a whisper.

Wilf inhales with a small shrug, turning his gaze back to the fire.

“She’s known Jimmy a long time. Not a bad lad, really. I suppose that’s why–” Wilf swallows. “But I know she cares about you.”

John’s eyes drift to the floor–wondering what he means by not a bad lad, if that punk could possibly managed to pull the wool over Wilf’s eyes about what an utter arse he is–wondering what Wilf means about her caring about him… caring how? Caring like a friend–or in a romantic way? Clearly whatever she’s got going on with Jimmy can’t be serious… can it? She can’t have been that close to him–she’d certainly never brought him up in conversation with John, and they’d talked about nearly everything. Then again… his stomach sinks as he realizes that there were quite a few things he’d never brought up in conversation with her, either. He looks back up at Wilf for a long moment, his head thrumming with unanswered questions.

“Did she–did she say anything?”

Shaking his head almost sadly, Wilf flicks his eyes back over to John with a half-grin. “No, she doesn’t tell me anything about what she’s got going on these days. Which is as it should be–she’s grown now, finding her own place in the world,” he says with a small smile, and he looks almost proud. Wilf clears his throat and looks over at John once more before continuing. “But I raised her. She’s family–I can tell these things.”

Wilf’s eyes drop back to the old stone fireplace, and John’s drifts to his own family.

“I wouldn’t know,” John murmurs.

His memories of them are all from childhood, hazy snippets dragged up through his mind from thirty years past. They’ve been gone so long that even his recollections of them are dulled, like old half-forgotten photographs that come to mind only when you find them in an album stuck onto something more recent. Something like… Rose. The regret pinches him so hard that he exhales a deep sigh to relieve the pressure. It all seems so silly now, and obvious in retrospect, how he couldn’t tell what he feels for her. And she cared for him, didn’t she? Of course she did. But that was then… and it doesn’t help him with the present day. He has no idea how she thinks of him now–if she’s thinking of him at all. What she wants now. Does she really want Jimmy of all people? He can’t tell–not at all.

John can feel Wilf’s gaze on him, sympathetic and heavy, and takes another sip of his ale, staring down at the amber brew as if it held all the answers.

They sit in silence for another few minutes.

“You still talk to her then, you said?” Wilf asks.

“Yeah. Not–not as often as before. But we’ve been meaning to,” John says, knowing it to be true for himself and hoping it to be true for her as well. “Talk more, I mean.”

Wilf nods. “That’s good.”

“She said–she said I can still come here,” John’s words sounding more forced than he means them to. But he needs to get it out, to confirm it–to know that Wilf feels the same way Rose did, and to know that despite everything, he is still welcome here.

Wilf smiles back at him. “Of course you can. It’ll be fishing season soon–maybe come up here on a bank holiday, eh? We can hit the lakes?”

John nods and exhales slowly, relieved. He gives a weak smile, looking down at his glass, which is nearly empty except for the remnants of froth clinging to the sides of the container. He’d talked about coming up to fish here before… while he was skating at the pond with Rose. He’d told her how he used to fish with his dad as a small boy, and she’d laughed… she’d seemed so happy that he wanted to come here for that–well, he’d wanted to come here to be near her, really… he swallows.

“You want another one?” Wilf asks, nodding at John’s empty glass.

“Yeah,” John says, exhaling deeply and looking up at his friend. “I’ll get us both one.”

At Wilf’s nod he rises from his spot on the sofa and slowly pads to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and leaning down to retrieve two more bottles of ale. He places them on the counter and slowly pries the caps off one at a time, letting the serrated edge of the cap dig into his thumb as they slowly give way under his hand. It stings as the metal grinds against his skin, and he knows he should probably use a proper bottle-opener, but he can’t really bring himself to care. He takes a sip of his ale and tosses the caps into the bin before heading back into the other room with the bottles.

As he returns, he sees Wilf has risen from his chair, and now stands looking at the wall of photos and mining memorabilia by the front entrance, his reflection casting a shadow on the “WEARDALE - FLUORITE CAPITOL OF THE UNITED KINGDOM” plaque. Wilf’s gaze is measured as he looks over the wall, with such a faint furrow on his brow that if John didn’t know him so well by now he would likely have missed it entirely. John moves to stand beside his friend and hands him the ale, his own eyes drawn to the plaque with its beautiful pink gemstone luminous in the background glow of the fireplace.

“Weardale must have been quite the boom town back in the day,” John offers. He vaguely remembers looking at this wall on his first visit to the B&B, how he’d thought then that all the workers in the old black and white photos looked so sullen. Looking at them anew now though, they strikes him differently–they don’t look resigned as much as determined. Tenacious, even.

Wilf nods slowly, then gives a small shrug. “That was a long time ago.”

John nods slowly, his eyes roaming over the photos of entire families of mine workers–generation after generation of northerners who worked long hours a mile underground, never seeing the sun except on a day off. Only to have those mines shut down, and to have to leave their jobs and their homes, many of which had been in their families for generations. The thought hits him unexpectedly hard, and he swallows thickly. “It must have been a hard life,” he murmurs.

“Still is,” Wilf says, his tone flat, his eyes still fixed on the wall. John looks over at him, surprised. Wilf pauses for a long moment as John waits for him to continue.

“I’m glad she’s in London. I miss her, but I want her to be able to do better for herself,” he says, his voice soft, but thick. “We make do here, but… I want more for her. More than having to make a living tied to this place for the rest of her life.”

John stands mutely, his mouth opening in objection and brow furrowing as Wilf’s eyes flick up to his own. The older man’s expression is solemn, and more open than John has ever seen it. John’s not sure if Wilf means Weardale or the B&B–or both–but he shakes his head, gesturing out in a sweeping motion across the inn.

“But look at all you’ve got, all your family has built–you have your own business, you’ve had this land for over 200 years–”

“I always wanted more for her than this,” Wilf says with a small shake of his head, glancing back at the wall. A fond smile comes to his face as his eyes linger on the photo of Rose as a small child in a pink ski suit, proudly holding up her ski trophy. John’s eyes follow Wilf’s motion and he looks back at the wall, at the photo of Rose, the photos of the mine workers, and the plaque of fluorite, still twinkling steadfast and bright in the glow of the fire.

“I’ve never had as much as this,” John says softly.

Wilf’s eyes flick over back to John’s and he looks almost regretful, like he wants to object to the statement. It would be a kind gesture… but they both know any statement to the contrary wouldn’t be true. John gives him a half-smile in return and shrugs, staring back down at his ale.

“Thank you, Wilf,” John whispers.

“What are you thanking me for?” Wilf asks with a confused chuckle.

“Well… for inviting me here, and opening your home to me, and for making me part of… part of…” He swallows. He can’t finish the sentence, the words “your family” stick in his throat–it seems too much, too presumptuous, even if that’s how they’ve treated him, even if that’s what he knows he means.

“Anytime, John. And… you are, you know.”

John’s eyes flick back up to Wilf’s to find his friend smiling at him. John smiles back and they turn to the wall of memorabilia, finishing their ales in silence.

–

John rises early to make a breakfast of pancakes the next morning for both Wilf and the guests before they go off to spend the day on the slopes of Swinhope Moor. It turns out this is the first time the couple from Durham has been skiing here–which answers his question from last night–they wouldn’t know Rose after all. He pulls out a sheet of paper from the front desk and gives them detailed directions on how to get to the ski lodge, complete with a map. They smile, thank him, and he watches them pull out of the carpark, their ski gear strapped on to the roof of their car. That reminds him–he thinks back to the cross country ski gear that’s still in his room upstairs. No use leaving it here, he supposes–not that he’d likely use it on one of the cross-country trails outside London either, but although Wilf apparently has no problem with him leaving it here he still feels bad about using his room here as a storage unit for it.

And who knows, maybe since Rose is in London too… he cuts down that thought in his mind as soon as it sprouts, stamping down the slight flare of hope taking root in his chest. There’s no way she’d want to. There’s no way he’d ask her… not about skiing. Not anymore. He’d ruined that, hadn’t he? He’d tainted something they’d enjoyed so much together. Possibly for good.

John descends the stairs slowly, duffel bag over one shoulder and ski bag over the other. Wilf stands behind the front desk at the bottom of the stairs, and his eyes catch John’s as he makes his way down towards him. The expression on his friend’s face is almost hesitant, and he sees Wilf inhale slowly, his eyes dropping to the basket of bonnie bits for sale on the front desk.

“There’s… something I’m not sure you saw yesterday. It was dark when you got here, so I suppose… and well, you didn’t mention it so I–” Wilf inhales.

“What is it?” John asks, the question automatic, the words soft. His brow furrows–whatever this is, it can’t be good.

Wilf steps out from behind the desk, shrugging on his coat and motioning to the front door. The door jangles as he opens it and the two men walk across the carpark, their shoes crunching the hard snow into the gravel under their feet. Wilf’s pace slows as he approaches the snowmobile off to the side of the carpark, and he gestures at it feebly.

John’s eyes drop down to the machine, wondering what on earth–

Oh. He sucks in a quick breath.

“There was some sleet the day Rose moved–took us a while to salt it that morning. Jimmy’s car was piled up with Rose’s things for her move, I don’t think he could see through his rear mirror. He lent me his in the meantime and said he’d pay for the damage,” Wilf says.

John’s jaw clenches and his eyes narrow, feeling his pulse beginning to throb in his neck. Even through the shock of seeing the damage to the snowmobile, he’s idly aware that his reaction would likely be far, far milder if it were anyone else on the planet who was responsible for this.

“I’m sorry John, all that work–”

John drops his bags on the gravel and crouches down beside the snowmobile, running his fingers over the dent in the side panel. There doesn’t seem to be any damage to the suspension or skis at least–but the running board is bashed in, half detached, and the ski rack he’d made for Rose, although largely intact, has a large dent in one of the rungs and the paint has chipped off. It’s an utter eyesore, and clearly undriveable. Bloody careless stupid Jimmy Stone. And the ski rack… John swallows, inhaling short puffs of breath through his nose, willing himself not to curse, telling himself to calm down for Wilf’s sake. John had worked so hard on this… spent so much time in the geology lab, and fucking Jimmy just has to–wait… the inscription he’d worked so hard on is on the other side of the machine–is it still in place, or was it damaged too? He springs up and darts to the other side of the snowmobile–it’s completely untouched, and he exhales a sigh of relief. John bends down just to double check it–everything is firmly in place, including the ski rack, the Prentice Forever inscription he’d made still gleaming with the bits of crushed fluorite from the bonnie bits. He runs his fingers over the whole side, just to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him. It’s fine–perfectly fine.

He lets out a soft bark of laughter and lets his head drop in relief. He doesn’t know if it’s a message, but he’ll sure as hell take it as one.

John rises, more slowly this time, and makes his way back to the other side of the snowmobile, once again crouching beside the damaged side. He makes quick mental calculations of the tools he’ll need–how much time it will take–how much he’d have to bribe the professor in charge of the lab again… he nods.

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, looking up at Wilf.

Wilf shakes his head. “I have an appointment to bring it to a repair shop next week–I just thought you should hear it from me and not just walk out here and find it like this.”

“I want to… I built my own car–I can do this,” John says, his tone more insistent, his eyes still fixed on his friend’s eyes. “Please,” he adds more softly, as an afterthought.

Wilf stays silent, his brow furrowed, but after a moment his mouth curves in a half-hearted smile and he nods.

“Sure. Of course, John.”

“I’ll hitch it to the back of my car, I’ll just need to borrow your trailer. You’ll have it back next weekend,” John says, running his hand over the ski rack. Tiny chips of iridescent blue paint flake off onto his fingers, falling to the ground as delicately as snowflakes as he brushes his hand onto his jeans.

Wilf pauses for a moment. “There’s still time in the ski season here–Swinhope Moor is open for another month. You never know, maybe–” he looks down at the snowmobile for a moment, his eyes lingering on the ski rack, then down at John’s ski bag lying on the ground beside them. He looks back up at John before continuing. “Why don’t you leave your ski gear here? The room’s still yours, you know.”

John nods, smiling at the warm expression on his friend’s face. “Okay,” he says.

“Oh… one more thing. Mind dropping off something with Rose on your way home? A little care package from home–Shepherd’s pie, some sausage, soup. You know how much she hates the kitchen.”

Wilf chuckles and John smiles back at him, unable to keep a grin from his face.

“Of course not–I’d be happy to,” he says.

“Good, then,” Wilf says, clasping him on the shoulder and smiling back at him.

They maneuver the snowmobile onto the trailer, and John drops off his ski bag in his room, bidding farewell to Wilf. He sits in the driver’s seat of his car a moment before leaving, composing a text to Rose.

Leaving Weardale now. Wilf gave me a care package for you… can I drop by?

He keeps the phone cradled in the palm of his hand and the car idles as he waits for a response. Sure enough, his phone pings in response a minute later.

that’d be great, thank you! i’ll buzz you in, just punch in flat #48 on the security panel

John smiles.

Of course :) , he types back.

He starts the drive back to London in a good mood–he’s going to see her again. Maybe this is the opening he needs. Maybe they’ll have a chance to talk finally–if Jimmy’s not there this time. His eyes narrow and he glares at the road as he thinks about Jimmy, the damaged snowmobile, how he mentioned the chippy just to spite Rose… and both Wilf and Bev’s implicit confirmation that they’re dating.

He swallows. Maybe it’s useless. Would she ever really let him in again… really? Maybe it was too late.

Then again… Wilf said she cares about him–present tense. And she hadn’t cut him out of her life–things might be progressing more slowly than he’d hoped for, though perhaps as slowly as he deserved. She’d wanted to linger at the bank, hadn’t she? Even though Jimmy was there and trying to prompt her to leave, she’d stayed… she was still letting him help her with the patent documentation even, and she hadn’t been upset at him about the fees that had come as a surprise to them both. She’d said she missed him at the pub, even. That’s got to be a good sign… doesn’t it?

John pulls up outside Rose’s building–miraculously, he’s able to find a spot big enough to park his car even with the snowmobile’s trailer attached. He grabs the bag of food from the passenger seat and makes his way to the building. Outside the glass doors to the front lobby, he sees a security panel. As instructed, he punches in #48 and waits as the dialtone connects him to the flat.

“Hello?” he hears a female voice say, and even through the tinny security box he can tell it’s Rose. Even though there doesn’t appear to be a camera, he smiles and self-consciously brushes a hand through his hair.

“It’s me. Uh, John,” he says, waffling back and forth from foot to foot, nervously spinning the plastic bag holding the food in his hand so fast that it the plastic twists around its handle and starts to cut of his circulation.

“Come on up!” she says, and he’d like to think that her tone is bright but her voice sounds metallic and fuzzy through the box and he can’t really tell. The door buzzes open and he enters the building, making his way to her flat, his heart racing with each step.

He raps on the door to her flat–three quick taps–and waits. After the briefest moment–and so quickly that he almost takes a step back in surprise–the door swings open, and there she is. His face breaks into a smile–she’s wearing a jumper and jeans, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail–she looks absolutely lovely.

“Hey,” she says a little breathily. She clears her throat and gives him a tentative smile. He can’t help his gaze falling to her mouth and resting on her lips, which are slightly open and glisten in the overhead light. He catches himself and flicks his eyes back up her own–she’s still looking at him with a gentle, yet almost cautious expression. Her brow is slightly furrowed and it strikes him then that she might be just as nervous as he is. She’s standing off to the side of the door, which is mostly open… is this an invitation inside? He’d hate to presume–the last thing he needs is another faux pas to push her away.

“How... um, how was the drive?”

“Hello… uh, fine. It was fine,” he says, clearing his throat. This is the first time they’ve been alone since that horrible day at the chippy, and bloody hell, all he wants is to hold her. Just a hug… they always used to hug. Is that–is that still something she’d want too?

Oh, to hell with it.

He opens his arms, bag still in hand, awkwardly lifting them towards her and his heart starts to pound, hoping she won’t leave him standing alone here like this. She doesn’t hesitate and takes a step forward into his arms, resting her head against his chest. He closes his eyes–this is the first time he’s held her in weeks. He wraps her into a tight embrace, and she reciprocates, her arms folding under his own and around his back, holding his shoulders. He inhales the light scent of her shampoo as he lays his cheek against the top of her head, letting her hair tickle his face. She wobbles slightly–she must be on tiptoe, he realizes. He steadies his arms around her and smiles.

“Would you like to come in?” she asks, her voice muffled against his jacket.

He nods into her hair.

“Yeah, thank you. In fact… um, if now’s a good time, Rose–I think we should talk.”


	21. Chapter 21

She stills in his arms, and his heart strains with an ache to draw her closer towards him. He hesitates, wondering what she’s thinking, what she will say. She doesn’t respond immediately and there’s a long, heavy pause in which he feels like he can barely breathe waiting for her answer. Her head remains pressed up against his chest, a few wispy blonde strands from her ponytail splayed in delicate contrast against his brown wool coat, and he wonders if she can hear his heart racing through the thick fabric. He’s not quite sure what to do with his hands and leaves them resting against her back the same way he always did when they used to hug… before. Raising her head, she begins to pull out of his embrace and his heart starts pounding even faster—perhaps she has no interest in talking this out after all? Oh god, maybe this is too soon—perhaps he should have waited? Should he have let _her_ make the first move? Maybe she’s busy—he shouldn’t have assumed she’d be free to talk, he’d only asked if he could drop off the food, after all. Explanations stutter through his brain, thudding to a stop at the tip of his tongue as his mouth goes dry. His arms fall from around her waist as she moves back and nods, taking a deep breath. She looks up at him, giving him a quick reassuring grin that doesn’t quite meet her eyes, and drops her gaze to the floor.

 “Yeah—yeah, sure. Ok.”

 “Ok,” he echoes, and it comes out a whisper. He exhales in relief, and the bright smile that spreads across his face is only dimmed by the flicker of doubt he’s not sure if he’s imagining in her expression.

 “Are you sure? If—if you’re not, it’s OK, I just…” he says and her eyes dart up to meet his. He wants everything to be perfect, he wants her to feel comfortable… and if she’s not, then best to delay this, right? Best to give her an out? God, he just wants to do something _right_ for once.

 “No,” she says and his heart sinks. She closes her eyes with a nervous laugh, shaking her head as if to dislodge the words she intends to say and to force them past her lips. “I mean yes. I mean—it’s OK,” she says. He swallows and beams once again at her—good, this is _good_. Maybe they can start to move past this.

 She opens the front door a little wider and smiles in a way that seems almost self-conscious, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He takes a step past her, forward into the flat—and he wonders if Tricia is here, his stomach quivering slightly as it occurs to him that there may be an audience for this conversation. Oh no—or worse… what if Jimmy’s here? Surely she would have said though, wouldn’t she? He’s not sure he trusts himself to ask directly without letting a sneer creep into his voice at the very mention of the boy’s name—and that would never do. Not that he wants to bring Jimmy up at _all_ in fact: this conversation is about John and Rose—it’s not about Jimmy at all, and he doesn’t want to justify the existence of Rose’s ‘relationship’ with the boy by asking about it. Besides—Jimmy can’t be here—she would have told him, or she would have said now wasn’t a good time.

 John turns around and meets her eyes as she shuts the door behind them, and gives her a smile that feels just as questioning and hesitant as he’s sure it must look on his face. Her own expression softens as their eyes meet, and although she’s still worrying at her lip, she smiles too. Her eyes drop again to the floor as she gives him a small, self-effacing shrug, and raises her hand to her head to tuck a strand of her golden hair behind the soft skin of her ear. One wayward lock remains curled insistently around her hoop earring, and he stills the urge to raise his own hand up to it, to let the pads of his fingers graze over the strands of hair and across her smooth skin—to have an excuse to draw her close against him once again.

 The desire surges so powerfully inside him that prudent or not, he’s just about to take a step towards her, when she momentarily turns her head back towards the door, and the lock of hair releases its hold on her earring. He swallows and averts his eyes.

 There’s another pause, heavy and awkward, and so unlike how they _used_ to be,that he’s not sure how to fill it, what to say, and is just about to open his mouth to say something—anything—when her voice fills the void, quiet and apologetic.

 “It’s a small place—sorry for the mess.”

 “Please don’t worry about it,” he says, his voice gentle, as he looks around the tiny carpeted area that passes for the front hall. There are bags and jackets stuffed onto a small coat rack on the back side of the front door, and he thinks he can just make out the edge of her ski bag protruding from the front hall closet. He wonders how her lessons at the indoor training arena just outside the city are going—wonders if he should ask her, or if that would be too much of a reminder of his _own_ lessons with her, and how that ended… no, best not to say anything, he decides. So far so good, and he’d like to keep it that way if at all possible, keep them moving forward and away from more painful topics and reminders of Chamonix.

 His eyes drop to the floor, at the various pairs of shoes wedged against the front door. He recognizes a pair of her trainers and a pair of snow boots she had worn on occasion back up in Weardale, and wonders if the others—a collection of tangled strappy high heels he’s never seen before—belong to her or to Tricia. He imagines how sexy they must make Rose’s legs look—god he’d like to find out. He’s only seen her in skirts a few times, but her calves are slender and toned. He sees a pair of men’s boots there as well, and his heart sinks—wondering if they’re Jimmy’s—or perhaps Tricia has a boyfriend? Or a brother?

 His eyes drift back to Rose’s. She’s looking up at him, biting the edge of her thumbnail in a way he’d only seen her do once before, when she was in an argument with Wilf one day about whether or not she should cancel her ski lessons due to an ice storm. He swallows, remembering the tension in her posture and voice that day and hoping she’s not expecting something similarly unpleasant now.

 “Where should I put…” he trails off, looking down at the bag in his hand and nodding at it. Rose lets out a short bark of nervous laughter and reaches out to take the bag from him, the tip of her finger brushing against his own as she curls it around the plastic handle. His own fingers still and he looks back up at her, but her eyes stay riveted on the bag.

 “Thank you,” she whispers, giving the bag a gentle pull, and he lets go, letting it drop into her hand.

 “Anytime.”

 She ducks into the tiny kitchen so quickly that her ponytail whips over her shoulder as she turns around and leans over to open the refrigerator door. Her jeans ride low on her hips, tight against her rear and he can see the strip of soft skin between the jeans and her jumper at the lower curve of her back. He can’t stop his eyes from caressing her hips the way he’d like his hands to be able to do, and thinks back to all the times up in Weardale she’d be similarly crouched down, and he’d avert his eyes because she was simply his _mate_ , and he thought he was in love with someone else, and that he shouldn’t be ogling her that way. He swallows down the regret that he should have been smarter, he should have made a move then—perhaps it would have been welcome then. Now, however…

 She fiddles for a moment to rearrange the items inside the refrigerator before placing the bag on one of the shelves and closing the door, then turning around to face him. She’s standing somewhat awkwardly—the posture of her shoulders and back is straighter than normal, and it makes her look tense, as if she were a wild animal ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. She gestures to a door off to the side of the tiny living room with a short motion of her hand, squeezing in the small space between him and the wall, making sure to not bump against him as she passes him. His gaze drops as she passes by, and his eyes trace her the gentle slope of her clavicle, down towards the V of her jumper where it gapes slightly at her chest, mere centimeters from his own.

 “Tricia—um, she’ll be getting in soon,” Rose says, and he nods—well, at least they’re alone for now. “There’s more privacy in here,” she continues, opening the door to what clearly is her bedroom.

 He takes a deep breath and follows her into the room, and she closes the door behind him. The door looks old, thick with dozens of coats of paint that make it look doughey and pockmarked, and it doesn’t quite close all the way. Instead, it remains insistently ajar despite the small shove she gives it before shaking her head and stepping back towards the center of the room.

 It feels intimate being in this personal space with her. At first it seems almost strange to step foot in here—he remembers her bedroom in Weardale so clearly even just from the few times he’d had reason to step inside. He can’t help his eyes roaming over the dresser and nightstand at the collection of makeup and jewelry, lotions and nail polish and hair brush—all the little baubles and odds and ends that go into her day and are a part of her routine, same as always. He feels himself smile at the familiarity of it all, at the thought that even back then, even as stupid as he’d been, he’d clearly paid attention to the little things that go into her day. It just goes to show that _some_ things in her life here are the same, just as they were in Weardale—surely that must be a sign that there’s some hope for their relationship to go back to that point too? Her bed sits unmade in the center of the room, pillows askew, and his lips quirk—he remembers seeing it similarly mussed in Weardale as well.

 He wonders if she still wakes up as early as she used to in Weadale, or if she sleeps in.

 Then again… he wonders if she wakes up alone, and then swallows the thought, his smile dropping, and his eyes flicking back up to her.

 She’s standing at the far side of the room by the window, her arms loosely crossed in front her and staring at her trainers. As he moves to take a step closer to her, she looks up at him, her expression nearly unreadable except for her eyes, soft and earnest.

 “If this is about Chamonix, we don’t need to talk any more about it.”

 “We haven’t talked about it at all,” he says, his voice quiet, but she cringes slightly, almost as if he had shouted the words instead.

 “Really, John… it’s fine.”

 “It’s not fine…”

 “You said you’re sorry—it’s ok… I mean, I just—”

 “There are a lot of things I _should_ have said besides ‘sorry’, Rose… it’s not ok. We’re not ok—” he says, gently gesturing between them and finally taking a tentative step closer to her. His heart is hammering hard against his ribs as if it wants to interrupt, to launch its own words at her—tell her how she makes him feel, how much he needs her, how _everything_ that matters these days is about her—how all he wants to do is to hold her close and kiss a thousand apologies against her skin for being so bloody _stupid_ all this time. “But I want us to be. So much.”

 She nods, her eyes dropping again to the floor. His heart swells with the desire to take her hand in his, to punctuate his words with some sort of an _action_ —but her arms are still crossed in front of her, almost protectively, and so his own hands remain uselessly at his side, his fingers opening and closing slightly, as if they too want nothing more than to be intertwined with hers.

 “I—I just wish you had told me, you know? ‘Cause it just felt like you and me—” she says in a rush then blinks rapidly as she cuts herself off, and looks towards the door, as if she’d rather escape from this conversation than finish her sentence. When she continues, her voice is weaker, strained, and the words sound carefully chosen. “It just felt like you and me got close, yeah?”

 “Yeah. Yeah we did—we _are_ , I hope,” he says, taking another step closer to her. His heart thrums a staccato beat and he hopes she didn’t mean anything by the past tense of that sentence. His voice drops, rough and tender and sincere. “Rose, you mean so much—”

 “But why,” her voice cracks. “Why did you let me—why didn’t you tell me? You never said a word—”

 God, he doesn’t want to talk about Chamonix or Jeanne or any of that. He wants to move past this—to tell her how much she means to him, and how sorry he is for the mistakes he’s made, and how he will learn from them— _has_ learned—and more than anything just wants to be close to her again. Closer, even… his desire in that moment to take her in his arms is so heavy it nearly knocks him over from the force of it. But… she’s asking him this. And she deserves to know, doesn’t she? Perhaps honesty will make this better—make _them_ better. Even though all he wants to do right now is to tell her how much he cares for her—how much he _wants_ her, and not to think about everything that he did to drive her away in the first place. This is all his fault—he destroyed everything between them. He takes a deep breath. What can it hurt, really? It’s not as if he’s telling her something that she didn’t already surmise from the chip shop.

 “It just… at first it was the reason I started taking lessons. But it stopped being the reason I was coming. It—it wasn’t important after a while, not at all,” he says, the words choppy and rushed. His words don’t make sense even to himself—he can’t even recapture his reasoning or why avoiding the topic of Chamonix had felt so crucial. “And… and I don’t know why I didn’t say anything at first. It was embarrassing, I guess. And then… after a while, the trip just wasn’t something I wanted to think about—”

 “What was embarrassing?”

 “What?” He startles for a moment, genuinely confused—his words had come out in such a rush that for a moment he’s not sure what she means. “Oh… not being able to ski.”

 “But you signed up for beginner lessons with me.”

 “Not you, I mean—” the words come out in a rush before he can catch the implication, and oh no, he does not like the direction this conversation is now going.

 Rose almost flinches, as if someone had doused her with cold water. “You mean she—she didn’t know that you couldn’t ski?”

 He nods—he’s not sure what else to do. She’s looking at him with such a plaintive expression in her eyes, and he does _not_ want to talk about Jeanne but he can’t lie to her. Not even a lie of omission. She _deserves_ to know, right? She always deserved to know. And more importantly, she _needs_ to know how much he’s willing to show her how important she is to him—to not take the easy way out here. Not anymore. And of course he won’t compound matters by talking more about Jeanne or his trip more than necessary—and certainly not saying that he once thought himself to be _in love_ with the other woman—but still, Rose deserves to have her questions answered.

 “So you had me teach you,” she says, and the words are soft, earnest—and he’s not sure if it’s a question or a comment, and his mind races, realizing he has no idea how he should respond to this.

 There’s a pause and they stand still, facing each other. He doesn’t want to nod—can’t nod, can’t make himself affirm that, even if it’s technically accurate because it seems so dismissive of everything she is to him. And even if maybe for his first visit it was accurate, it certainly wasn’t after he got to know her better, after he fell—

 She ducks her head, turning away from him, towards the window looking over the carpark outside the building.

 “Rose…” he whispers, taking another step towards her, his hand reaching out and hovering lightly under her elbow, although whether the gesture is more to reassure her or himself he isn’t sure. “It wasn’t—I never meant it like that. You’re so important to me, do you have any idea how much I—I never meant—”

 He cocks his head to the side, trying to get her attention—to get her to _look_ at him again, but she stares out the window and he’s not sure she’s even listening to him—if she’s hearing anything he’s saying at all. Her expression becomes puzzled, her eyebrows furrowing, and her head turns to look at him so suddenly that he almost takes a step back.

 “You brought… the snowmobile?”

 He starts slightly at the abrupt change in top and glances out the window. From this vantage point he can clearly see his vehicle parked in the carpark, the bright blue snowmobile hitched to it by a trailer. It seems like as good an excuse as any to lighten the mood and he feigns surprise, his eyes widening in mock shock.

  I suppose I must have! _That_ must have been what was rattling behind me the whole drive back!” he says, and he can’t keep the facade up for long, his faux alarmed expression melting into a wide smile as she looks back at him, eyebrows raised.

 She bites back a laugh, her eyes crinkling slightly from mirth before she pauses, her brow furrowing once again and her eyes hesitant. “Is it still…” she trails off. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence, the expression on her face says enough—is it still _damaged_ because of that tosser Jimmy, she means.

 His smile fades and he nods, sincere. “Yeah. I told Wilf I’d fix it.”

 “You didn’t have to—”

 “It’s no problem,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, as if dismissing any trouble from the situation as not even being worth mentioning. His eyes bore into her own—willing her to see how sincere he is, how he’s willing to do anything for her, or for her grandfather, or even for that damn B&B he’s grown to love so much, willing her to _smile_ again like she did a moment ago—but instead, her expression is hesitant. The small furrow in her brow is back and he resists the urge to trace it with the pads of his fingers and wipe it away—she should never have cause to worry. Not about him.

 “Jimmy said he’d pay for it… I’ll get him to write you a cheque for the parts.”

 “No,” he says gruffly, shaking his head. “I’ll take care of it.”

 “No way!” she says, insistent, drawing out each syllable as if to underscore her point. “ _You_ shouldn’t have to pay for all that—”

 “The parts are inexpensive, and I don’t want his money.” She stills for a moment, and although her brow remains furrowed, something in her eyes softens, as if she might not agree but can still accept his rationale. At least he hopes. God save him from having to ever interact with that wanker again—or take his money, of all things. Even the thought makes his jaw clench.

 “Though perhaps he should have been watching where he was going,” his words and abrupt tone come out unbidden, and although he doesn’t believe they sound _excessively_ harsh they still don’t do justice to the far more bitter words roiling through his mind at the reminder of the incident.

 She starts at this, shaking her head, her eyes still earnest. “He didn’t mean to, John—he was just trying to help me—”

 “Sure,” he says, wanting to change the topic, and not sounding convincing even to himself. She pauses for a moment, still looking at him plaintively, and shakes her head.

 “He’s a good person! He’s been my mate my _whole_ life—” and there’s something firm and uncharacteristically protective that comes over her expression, giving him pause. She’s never sounded angry at him before—not even when she was asking him about Chamonix just a minute ago. But she sounds upset now… over _Jimmy_ of all people? He stares mutely at her, unable to believe she’s talking about _Jimmy Stone_ in such terms. And while he of course—and _gladly_ at that—will fully admit to not being that familiar with the boy, he’s certainly seen enough to be able to know a bloody conniving arsehole when he sees one—and could Rose _really_ be completely blind to this, despite even Jimmy’s behavior in the bank the other day? If she knows him half as well as she claims she does, she _has_ to know this—surely she must, on some level.

 His heart races, though no longer from his previous nervousness, but rather from the frustration burning inside him. He averts his eyes to the floor, swallowing quickly. He’s not angry at Rose—not exactly—but how could she not see what was _so_ _obviously_ staring her in the face? That boy is a tosser, a user—and is bloody ruining everything even when he’s not here. How the hell did he even come up in conversation?! John swallows again, feeling her eyes on him, waiting for him. This won’t do. _This won’t do._ This is the first real conversation they’ve had since Chamonix, and it started off well enough, with a hug, but now how the hell does _Jimmy_ —

 He’s pulled out of his thoughts as he hears the click of the front door, then someone is knocking on the slightly ajar bedroom door, gently pushing it open as if to get a better look inside.

 “Rose, you in here? Change of plans, Jimmy thought the pub would be—”

 A young brunette, pretty and fashionably dressed, peeks her head through the door. Upon seeing John, she stops in her tracks, looking from John to Rose and back again.

 “Oh. Hello…” she says finally.

 “Hey Tricia,” Rose says, giving the girl a tight smile. “Be there in a bit. Um… this is John.”

 Tricia’s eyebrows raise slightly as she looks from John to Rose, and her gaze drops, quickly scanning over the rest of the room… the bed, the dresser, the floor. John wonders what she thinks she’s looking for.

 “Ah. Um… okay. Good to finally meet you,” she says, but her tone is distracted and she doesn’t meet his eyes.

 “Same,” John says. And as jarred as he is by the interruption, this is good isn’t it? Gives him a chance to cool down, and for his heart to stop racing before he says something _else_ he regrets.

 “Yeah well… Jimmy’s waiting for me at the pub, sooo…” she says, backing out of the bedroom and leaving the door open. She goes to the front closet and retrieves a pair of the strappy high heels, plopping herself down on the sofa and fastening the shoes onto her foot. There’s an awkward silence as John and Rose watch her from the bedroom, and her gaze flicks back up to Rose’s as soon as she has the second shoe secured. “I can wait for you,” Tricia says, and to John’s ears it sounds more like a statement of intent than an offer.

 John glances over at Rose, his stomach flipping… their conversation had been tense—would she want him to leave? Would _she_ want to go now—leave him to go to a pub with Jimmy, her _life-long mate?_ He can’t even bring himself to _think_ the words without biting his lip. He pushes down the renewed annoyance bubbling up from inside him. Dammit perhaps she should go… it’s not like he’s going to be able to accomplish any of what he’d hoped for. This conversation was over before it began.

 “Nah that’s okay, Trish. Meet you down there though, yeah?”

 Tricia looks from Rose to John one last time, her eyes lingering on Rose for a long moment. Finally she shrugs and turns towards the front hallway.

 “’Course,” she says, with a tight smile and disappears out the front door, leaving them alone once again.


	22. Chapter 22

**For those of you who missed the gorgeous manip[allumina](http://tmblr.co/m9Ldlo2FyQoUHEAmDNou9Fw) did for Spring Conditions check it out [here](http://kilodalton.tumblr.com/post/82293962432/hey-kd-i-made-you-a-quick-bit-of-fanart-for)!! For those of you who missed the exquisite drawing **that[fadewithfury](http://fadewithfury.tumblr.com) drew, it is **[here](http://fadewithfury.tumblr.com/post/64916080988/spring-conditions-by-kilodalton-happy-birthday-my) =D**

* * *

 

John stands still until he hears the front door creak to a close behind Tricia, the soft noise magnified by the silence of the flat. He glances at Rose—she stays planted a few metres away from him, arms crossed in front of her chest as she bites her lip, her eyes fixed on the floor. He wonders what she’s thinking—why she asked him to stay, if she has more questions about Chamonix, or if she wants to defend _Jimmy_ some more, of all bloody people. He can’t bring himself to ask, though, shoving the words underneath his tongue and sealing his lips against them—with his luck today he’d just end up starting another argument.

 

God, this visit was supposed to _resolve_ things, not worsen them.

 

He shifts his weight, not sure what to do with himself—they shouldn’t talk any more about Chamonix, should they? Clearly they shouldn’t talk about _Jimmy_ anymore, however he’d managed to come up in conversation in the first place. It strikes John that perhaps he should apologize again, offer to leave, try to have this conversation another time—maybe that would be the best thing to do?—but an ache runs though him at the thought of walking away from her. No, it would be cowardly to walk away now—if she has questions, he’ll answer them. If she wants to yell at him… well, he’d deserve that, too. It’s been so long since they’d last talked, and even though this visit hasn’t been going well, it’s still a _conversation_ , isn’t it? It’s still a step in the right direction. She’d wanted him to stay, didn’t she? She’d sent Tricia away, she’s even putting off Jimmy right now so they can talk more and—

 

“M’sorry…” she murmurs, her eyes flicking back up to his. She’s still biting her lip, and her brow is furrowed, and he can’t imagine why on earth she could possibly think she needs to apologize to _him_.

 

He shakes his head, taking a step towards her. “There’s nothing to apologize for. If anything, I—”

 

“No,” she says, punctuating the word with a slow shake of her head, her ponytail swaying from the motion. A chuckle, low and self-deprecating, escapes from her lips. “You’ve done enough apologizing, I just—”

 

Her words trail off as she looks up at him again. In that moment, her eyes are earnest—raw and open, and he swallows thickly. This is the first time she’s looked at him—really _looked_ at him—in weeks now, without averting her gaze, without a fog of hesitancy in her eyes, without a tense expression on her face as if she’d like to dart away from him at the first opportunity. It’s the first time it’s felt like he’s really reaching her again—and it’s just for a moment, and it’s just a start—but his heartbeat quickens, his rapid pulse flooding his entire body with hope. His mind races, and he wonders if this means that she’s really seeing _him_ too—how much he cares for her, how much he wishes he could take back everything that happened.

 

He stays rooted to the spot, not wanting to push her, not wanting to chase this moment away—and it’s not much, but at least it’s something that she’s looking at him that way, right? She stays still for a few seconds more, her brow furrowed as if something is warring within her, before finally opening her mouth to speak.

 

“Just…c’mere,” she says, the words breathy and clumsy, as she closes the distance between them and wraps him in a hug.

 

He widens his eyes with a short intake of breath, both from the surprise at her action as well as at the sensation of her body once again pressed up tight against his own, her head on his shoulder. He sighs, breathing her in, enjoying the comfort of her nearness as his arms instinctively wrap across her waist, fastening around her. He knows he should keep quiet, savor this moment, let her take the lead if she wants—but the words stumble from his lips, tripping over themselves, pent up too long, and damn it he doesn’t want to leave the flat without getting out at least _this_ much of what he’d wanted to say. Nothing’s gone right, not this whole visit, but she’s in his arms again and however small it is, it’s another chance—and he’ll take it.

 

“Rose,” he murmurs, drawing her in closer to him, his hands cradling her shoulders. His fingertips graze over the soft fabric of her jumper, and his thumbs trail circles against her shoulderblades—whether to soothe her or himself he’s not sure, but he can hear her breath catch at the movement before she stills in his arms. He squeezes his eyes closed—it’s easier that way, not knowing if his words will be welcome or not. He tilts his head against her own, once again inhaling the light scent of her shampoo and feeling a rogue strand of hair from her ponytail graze against his lips. It’s sweet and it burns and it’s all the invitation he needs. “You are _so_ important to me. I never want you to doubt that again—not ever. I’m so sorry I made you doubt it in the first place—”

 

“No—” she chokes out with a shake of her head. “I’m fine, I’m just—I’m just tired of all this. I—I want things to be okay, too. We’ll be ok, you and me. We both want that, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” he whispers, his arms tight around her, and he feels her shoulders stretch underneath his palms as she tightens her grip on him too, her head burrowed against his chest. His heart is hammering hard, beating in celebration against the inside of his chest—and she hasn’t said outright she forgives him, but she as good as implied it, and that’s enough—he’ll take it, gladly.

 

“Good, then,” she says, squeezing him tighter for a moment and then loosening her grip, starting to pull back and away from him. Startled, he loosens his arms around her as well, letting her get air or space or whatever she wants. Had he been holding her too tightly—had he done something wrong? He’d hold her all day if she’d let him—or do a lot more than that if he had the slightest confidence she would reciprocate at this point—but he won’t push her. This is already so much more than he’d hoped for, he can be patient. He can wait for her, for whatever she needs.

 

She sniffs, and it takes a moment for him to register that her eyes are red-rimmed. He stares at her for a long moment, still holding her in a half-embrace, and one of his hands releases her waist, his thumb coming up to caress the apple of her cheek as tenderly and delicately as he can. She blinks rapidly, her lashes fluttering, her eyes moist. She looks like she’s about to cry—has he made her cry? What on earth could he have said?

 

“Did… did I do something wrong?” he says, his mouth dry.

 

She shakes her head, and the motion is almost too quick. “No, I’m just—I’m just glad that we… that we want the same thing,” she whispers. It’s a small movement, but he feels her fingers gently move over his back in almost a small caress—but then her hand abruptly stills itself, halting the motion in its tracks before he has more than the barest chance to register that he wasn’t imagining it to begin with. She swallows and smiles up at him, and it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, still wet with what looks like unshed tears, and he doesn’t quite believe her that she’s fine—but he doesn’t want to contradict her, or push her.

 

“Oh…” he says, swallowing. “Yeah.”

 

She gives him a half-smile, then turns away.

 

“Suppose I ought to go meet up with them at the pub,” she says, and his stomach plummets, any remaining joy of the past few moments sucked down in its wake as it falls. No… she can’t leave yet, can she? It’s too soon… he’s hardly been here any time at all. She shrugs her shoulders and gives him a half-smile which makes him wonder how much she actually wants to go rather than simply feels like she should. He bites back the urge to ask her, though—best to avoid any mention of Jimmy.

 

“Do you have to?” he asks instead, his voice rougher than he expects it to be, more raw than he expects it to sound. His hands loosen around her waist, falling along the gentle contour of her arms. His thumb brushes the loose, soft cuff of her jumper, the fabric catching slightly on his rough cuticle, and he wraps his index finger around her own like a delicate tether, a plea to stay. There’s still so much he wants to tell her—about how he feels for her, about how Jeanne means nothing to him now and _has_ meant nothing for a very long time—but her gaze flickers to the floor and he hesitates.

 

“Yeah… I promised. Jimmy, I mean…” she says, glancing back up at him. A shadow falls over her face as she says the boy’s name, as if she’s not sure how John will react. “I’ll be up in Weardale next weekend, I promised Gramps I’d help out. He’s got some sort of an eye exam… won’t be able to drive much for a day or so. I’ll see you then though, yeah?”

 

His brow furrows—Wilf hadn’t mentioned that to him, even though the older man knew John would be up there that same weekend. Surely Wilf wouldn’t have wanted Rose to leave London so soon. “Is everything okay—can I help? He didn’t say anything—“

 

She smiles and waves away his concern with a small motion of her hand. “Nah. Just a routine thing. You know how they put drops in your eyes to make them blurry for things like that.”

 

She walks out of her bedroom and the only thing he can do really is to follow her through the small flat and to the front door, which creaks slightly as she opens it for him. Before he steps out, he turns around to face her.

 

“Next weekend then?” he says, an edge of hope creeping into his voice. It feels completely baseless—he’s having to leave so she can spend time with _Jimmy_ of all people, after all… but even so, she nods and there’s something in the smile she gives him then, something sanguine and encouraging, that makes him smile too.

 

“Yeah. Next weekend,” she says.

 

He gives her a quick wave and heads out the door, sauntering to the staircase at the far end of the hall. The corridor is so silent that he can practically hear his heart beating in his throat, and when he reaches the staircase it occurs to him that he never heard the door close or creak shut behind him. He turns around and looks back at the doorway, seeing Rose still standing there, watching him. She raises her hand and gives him a small smile and a wave. Once again, he waves back, and waits for the door to the flat to shut before he can pull himself away from her, down the stairs and out of the building.

 

—

 

An hour later, John stands in the faculty carpark, his car and the snowmobile trailer stretching across not only his own reserved spot but four others as well, and it occurs to him that he _really_ should have thought this plan through more. Luckily for him, it’s a Sunday, and the only other cars littering the carpark had likely been left over the weekend—there’s nobody to threaten to have him towed, or to complain (again) to his department chair about his use of his parking privileges on his automotive projects. Even so, the last remnants of daylight are fading fast, and if he hopes to get this part of the repair completed today, he’d better work quickly. With a sigh, he removes a wrench from the toolbag in the boot of his car and gets to work stripping the damaged portions.

 

He grits his teeth as he looks at the damage on the snowmobile. It doesn’t seem fair, really—here he is, cleaning up _stupid_ Jimmy’s _stupid_ mess, while at this very moment Jimmy gets to be with Rose. He wonders what they’re doing… something about a pub, Tricia had said? He swallows, remembering all too clearly the _last_ time he’d seen them in a pub—his favorite one—intimately sharing a booth, sharing dinner… Jimmy’s hands practically all _over_ Rose—and the boy _was_ being handsy and possessive, no matter what Jack has to say about it. At least this time Tricia is there—hopefully her presence will throw a bit of cold water on their ‘date’, he supposes, as he gives the running board a vigorous tug.

 

It doesn’t budge. Bloody perfect. With a sigh, he pulls an old screwdriver from his toolbag and begins to pry it loose.

 

He’s been working on extricating the running board for about ten minutes, David Bowie blasting at top volume from his own car to relieve the tedium—and he isn’t expecting anyone to come walking up to him, really—certainly not Jeanne.

 

He hasn’t seen her at all really since… well, since that night in Chamonix. She waves to him from across the carpark, her expression almost hesitant, and says she hadn’t seen him around much… he shrugs—he hasn’t been quite _avoiding_ Jeanne, but with Rose on his mind it hadn’t occurred to him to seek her out. As their exchange of pleasantries trails off into silence, her eyes drop to the pink sparkled inscription he’d put on the snowmobile. She stills, her eyebrows raised, and she seems almost surprised, almost sad—but then she smiles quickly and says that it was nice to see him again, and that she’s running late to meet Dr. Louis… John wishes her well… and then… well, then she’s gone.

 

As she walks away, he turns back to his work.

 

He finishes stripping the parts just as the last rays of daylight disappear behind the stark city skyline, the shadows from the university buildings falling lonely and stark across the campus. The carpark lighting flickers on as dusk settles, and knows he probably makes an awkward and solitary figure loping towards his building, with the running board under one arm and the ski rack under the other. He fumbles with the front door, almost dropping the ski rack and denting it further as he attempts to open it—the door is locked of course, and he can barely see his keys in the fading light. Finally arriving at his office, he lays the ski rack and running board precariously across the top of his desk, crushing books and papers and student lab reports he knows he _really_ should grade sooner rather than later. Behind his filing cabinet, he retrieves a foldable cardboard box—he’d almost forgotten that he had a few stashed back there, remnants of his big office move just two days after he’d met Rose. He smiles to himself, thinking of that first trip to Weardale, and assembles the box, dropping most of the books and paperwork from his desk inside to give the running board and ski rack a better spot to rest. The books make a racket as he drops them inside, not that it matters—he’s likely the only one in the building at this late hour. He sits down to log on to his computer and special-orders a new running board and matching paint from a local dealer—with any luck he should have them in a few days’ time. All that’s left to do is to talk his friend in the geology department into letting him use his lab once again to refurbish the ski rack, and he should have plenty of time to repair it before going back up to Weardale next weekend to see Wilf… and Rose.

 

As he swivels around in his chair, his eyes flick to the incessantly blinking little red light on his phone which signals his voicemail system. He pushes the button for speakerphone—two messages await him. He listens to first the message, smiling as he hears the voice of his old colleague and mentor, Dr. Lethbridge-Stewart, chair of the physics department at Durham University. The message winds through pleasantries—how long it’s been since they’d last spoken and how he _still_ hasn’t forgotten John owes him a visit, before getting to the point: he’d received Luke’s application for the physics program and was impressed, but had called to learn a little more about the boy. John makes a mental note to call him back this upcoming week. Who knows—with Durham only an hour’s drive from Weardale, perhaps he could stop by one weekend.

 

He smiles even brighter at the second message—it’s the patent attorney. Not only has the patent paperwork been filed, but an old friend at London Mining had taken an interest in the patent and had further taken the liberty of pitching it to the project management team. They’ll have the final contract later this week, but as things stand now, they’re planning on licensing the technology to pilot in one of their smaller international mines. The license fee would be paid in advance and although it wouldn’t be much at this time—only £1000, give or take—if they keep using the technology, Rose could earn many, many times that amount in the long-term.

 

Smiling broadly, he laughs in celebration, clapping his hands together in victory as he spins around in his chair, the noise echoing in his empty office. This is everything he’d worked for and hoped for, and it’s working out just brilliantly for Rose. Much better than he’d even dared to hope, in fact—the buyers for his own patents rarely pay out in advance, let alone that much!

 

Rose... he smiles broadly—God, she’ll be over the moon to hear this! He grabs his phone and quickly types a message to her with the good news.

 

_Thought you’d want to know asap. Looks like the patent might have a buyer! They’ll pay_ _£_ _1000 in advance, could be more than that long-term_

His phone dings a moment later with the reply.

 

_oh my god that’s brilliant thank you so much! i’ve never had that much money in my life!!_

He responds with a smiley face and she sends one back to him. He grins down at his phone—she might be with Jimmy right now, and he might hate the bastard—but at the very least he’s certain at this moment that _he_ is the one who is making her smile.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to betababe fadewithfury/foxmoon--who also drew a brand new lovely piece of fanart for last chapter here: http://fadewithfury.tumblr.com/post/86339113542/happy-graduation-kilodalton-inspired-by-spring ... I'm sorry for the delay with this--since the last chapter was posted, I graduated from pharmacy school, and had to both study for (and pass!!) my board exams so that I could officially start work as a licensed pharmacist. There were 2 board exams and this was a lot of pressure... ergo the massive delay. Thanks so much for your patience!!

John carefully maneuvers his vehicle into the carpark at the B&B early that Friday evening, the snowmobile fully repaired and proudly attached to the boot. He’d stayed late at work every night this past week to work on fixing it, and he smiles as brings the car to a stop—he’d go so far as to say the snowmobile looks even better than before Jimmy hit it. Even in the dusk, the new running board he’d installed gleams with the bright blue that he’d painted it, the same hue as the ski rack he’d made for Rose. He looks up as soon as he shifts the gear into park, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror in the dimming light to check his reflection. He grimaces, running a hand through his hair before he heads inside to see Rose and Wilf. He wonders what she’ll say about the repair— _of course_ he knows she’ll like it—he did a good job… but no sooner does he nod at his reflection, finally content, that a thought comes unbidden to his mind—what if talking about the snowmobile leads to another argument about Jimmy?

 

He draws his eyebrows close together, pressing his lips into a thin line and sighs—no matter what, he’ll have to hold his tongue. He grips the steering wheel tight at the thought—he hates holding back, especially now, especially from Rose… but he dare not chance another argument. He hasn’t seen Rose all week—they’d texted, of course— _that_ part of their relationship was slowly going back to normal, although there were still stops and starts in their conversations, and entire hours when he wouldn’t hear back from her at all. She hasn’t mentioned Jimmy once all week—which makes sense after their argument, he supposes. She now knows full well how John feels about him—but all the same John knows she’s seeing him, spending time with the tosser, and it twists his gut to know not only that Jimmy is still big a part of her life, but moreover a part of her life that he knows nothing about. She’d said she wanted things to go back to normal between them, and he’s not sure if he’s reading too much into it or not but it still feels so unlike before, when they used to talk fluidly, all the time, like two parts of a whole. During one of their conversations this week he’d offered to drive her—hoping perhaps they could spend some more time together, talk more—but she’d already made plans to come up a day early for Wilf’s appointment with his general practitioner. John had understood, of course—and if it hadn’t been for his lecture Friday morning he would have taken off early to join her—spending time with her was obviously preferable to being alone in his office thinking about her.

 

It would have also been preferable todriving this entire distanceon his own thinking about her, as well.

 

He steps out of the car, giving the snowmobile one final once-over to make sure everything is in order, then grabs his duffel bag from the boot and heads for the front door. His trainers crunch the gravel under his feet as he walks, and even in the dimming light he can tell it’s covered with a thin layer of snow that’s beginning to ice over. It’s slicker than Wilf would normally allow it to be, and John finds he has to watch his step to make sure he doesn’t slip. Strange, that—he makes a mental note to tell Wilf and get a bag of salt for the carpark before any other guests arrive.

 

The front door jangles when he enters, and he steps into the front hall of the B&B, the warm lights enveloping him like a welcoming hug back home. The bell almost seems to echo forlornly in the silence of the hall—the inn is so _quiet_ tonight… much more so than usual. Normally Wilf is bustling around, running from the kitchen where he normally is preparing a meal—but a quick sniff and a glance towards the darkened kitchen tells John that no supper is cooking. Turning his head back towards the front door, he peers through the glass pane, and his brow furrows as it registers that his car and Wilf’s car are the only two vehicles in the carpark—he hadn’t noticed that when he’d pulled in. That’s strange too… on a Friday night during ski season there are usually at least a couple of other guests checked in by this time. This is one of the last good ski weekends Weardale is likely to have—he can’t possibly be the only visitor this weekend, can he? Except for his Christmas holiday here—when the inn was otherwise closed—John has _never_ been the only guest.

 

Slightly perplexed, he shifts his duffel bag more firmly onto his shoulder and turns back towards the front hall.

 

The flicker of the telly in the otherwise dim sitting room catches John’s attention and he takes a step further inside. He blinks, his eyes adjusting from the relative brightness of the front hall, and it takes him a moment to notice the shadowed figure sitting quietly in the room, in front of the telly. He smiles as the light from the telly catches on the snowy white of the older man’s stubbly beard—it’s Wilf, sitting in his easy chair, his feet propped up on a nearby stool. John takes a tentative step closer then hesitates—his friend’s head is cocked gently to one side, his eyes closed and his breathing even. John begins to turn around to leave Wilf to his rest, but as he takes a cautious step backward, his trainer presses down on an unfortunately creaky board. John’s eyes dart back to Wilf, and he winces as Wilf’s head bobs up at the noise. The older man inhales sharply and blinks rapidly as his head jerks around towards John, trainer still poised apologetically over the floorboard in question.

 

“John? S’that you, son?” Wilf says, his voice rough with sleep.

 

“Yeah—it’s just me,” John answers, a smile spreading over his face at Wilf’s words. He drops his duffel bag beside the sofa and shuffles forward, hands shoved into his pockets. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. How are you feeling?”

 

Wilf shrugs, settling back down in his seat with a roll of his eyes, sighing as he closes them. “Oh, I’m fine—you know how it is, they put those damn drops in, and your eyesight’s all blurry for the rest of the day. Guess I must have nodded off. What time is it?”

 

“It’s half five,” John smiles, leaning a hip against the back of the sofa as he smiles at his friend. “Appointment went well, then?”

 

Wilf gives a disinterested hum in assent, then drags his gaze back to focus on John. He blinks slowly, heavily and John’s struck at how _tired_ he looks.

 

“If you… if you want to get some rest Wilf, there’s no need to stay up on my account. I can take care of supper and check-in—there’s no-one checked in yet, I take it?”

 

“No guests this weekend,” Wilf answers. His voice is still heavy with fatigue, but there’s something else in his tone that makes John frown—something almost distracted—and it makes John wonder if it’s due to more than just the doctor’s appointment. “I took the weekend off. I’ll head to bed in a bit, I’m just waiting for Rose to get in—”

 

“She’s not here?” John asks, his voice sounding small even to his own ears. He knows full well he’s tried and failed to keep the disappointment out of it, and is rewarded with an amused grin from Wilf as he settles back into his chair.

 

“She’s at Swinhope Moor, she skied over this afternoon.”

 

“Oh—” John says. “She didn’t take Jimmy’s snowmobile?”

 

“No, she left it with me in case I needed it—not that I can drive the bloody thing, the clutch is loose.”

 

John frowns in annoyance—of course it would be just like that arse to not only ruin one snowmobile, but to leave an essentially broken one in its place. He narrows his eyes and is momentarily tempted to head straight to the garage fix the damn thing himself, if only for the satisfaction of Jimmy learning that _he’d_ been tinkering with it, and that it only works because of _him_. He pushes the thought down—he doesn’t want to do that tosser any favors—and moreover it would take time away from both Wilf and Rose. Speaking of which…

 

“It’s getting dark… is she skiing home? She should be home by now, shouldn’t she—”

 

Wilf shakes his head, unconcerned. “Eh, she’ll probably catch a ride from Mickey or Adam or one of them blokes up there—”

 

John glances down at his shoes and shrugs, the movement casual and almost self-effacing. “I could… well, the snowmobile’s fixed now, I could give her a test spin, eh?”

 

He flicks his eyes back up to Wilf, who chuckles and shakes his head.

 

“Go get her, John,” Wilf says, amusement lingering in his voice. “You go get her.”

 

—

It would be more prudent to take his car, he knows, but he can’t resist the thought of showing up to meet Rose with the newly-repaired snowmobile. Primarily, of course, to show off his repair job… although with the sun rapidly setting behind the lilting hills in the distance, he knows she’s unlikely to be able to see it well enough to comment much on the work he did. This is the first time he’s ever ridden a snowmobile on his own—every time before now he had always been with Rose, and had only been her passenger. As he sits astride the machine, he thinks of all the times he’s ridden behind her on the contraption, his arms around her waist for balance, his thighs pressed up against the back of her own. A tendril of heat pools low in his belly at the thought of being that close to her again—this time, her body cupped firmly around the back of his own, her arms gripped tightly around him, embracing him. Not for the first time, he thinks of how much time he’d wasted, and swallows.

 

Right then. Only one thing for it. He straps on his helmet and goggles, slips his feet in the stirrups and turns the ignition to power on the snowmobile.

 

The evening chill sets in quickly as he maneuvers the snowmobile towards Swinhope Moor, and he soon needs to turn on the headlights in the twilight. The landscape around Weardale whizzes by as he rides along—wild crags and untamed brush grasping up through the snow with their unrelenting hold, even as they fade into the background in the inky dusk and the speed with which he passes them. It’s beautiful, he thinks, and he pushes down the disappointment that he didn’t arrive earlier in the day to spend more time with Rose. It strikes him that this might be the last trip he even _takes_ to the ski lodge this season. _This season_ … the implication in his thoughts is clear as day, that there will be a _next_ season. Rose would want that… wouldn’t she? They’ve come so far in the past few weeks—by next season, their relationship is sure to be much improved, isn’t it? All the same, perhaps it’s for the best that he missed out on her ski trip today, he thinks grudgingly—it’s not like he’d have been able to _ask_ her to ski with him again—that would have been far too awkward.

 

He and Rose have been patching things up slowly, sure enough—the fact that she’s answering his texts, and that she wants him here at _all_ attests to that—but whatever this thing is between them is still so new and green that it’s best not to push things. Next ski season, perhaps? Maybe things would be better between them then. He allows the hope to bloom in his chest at the thought, remembering how much fun they’d had on the trails at Swinhope Moor when she’d been teaching him: her laughter as he’d pull a face over getting snow down his jacket, her cheering him on when he’d make it down the slope without falling. Even as he smiles at the memory, part of him wonders how on earth their relationship will _ever_ be that carefree and happy again—especially when it comes to skiing. If there will ever be a time without that damned _Jimmy_ in the mix. But still… baby steps, right?

 

The ski lodge itself is a short drive away, but it takes him extra time to get there. Longer than Rose would take if she were driving, at least—but managing the throttle with one hand and the brake lever with the other is trickier that it seemed at first. It takes him several tries to be able to slow the machine down without it jerking to a too-quick stop, and he practices this the whole way to the lodge. Slow—stop—speed up—slow—stop—speed up. He’s well aware he probably looks ridiculous to anyone watching from the cabins at Swinhope Lodge, but the thought is an idle one and he couldn’t care less.

 

It’s much better to look foolish in front of a stranger than to make an idiot of himself in front of Rose.

 

Finally—after what is probably minutes later but feels more like hours based on the cramping in his throttle-hand—he steers the snowmobile up the last hill leading to Swinhope Lodge and comes to a gentle stop—he smiles to himself, practice makes perfect.

 

The sun has almost completely set behind the lodge, and the dark evening sky stretches overhead like black velvet pulled tight against the horizon. Even though the moon has begun to rise over the distant crags, the sun hasn’t yet relinquished the last of its hold on the sky, its last fiery red rays burning fierce and insistent before being quenched by the cold, dark night. John stops for a moment to marvel at the sight—he knows the science behind it of course, the equations that explain the wavelength and refraction and the symphony of color, but all the same… it’s magical. It’s a paradox, it’s night and day all rolled into one, and it should be impossible. He can’t help but take it as a good sign—that maybe _other_ things that seem impossible can be worked out as well.

 

“John…?”

 

Her voice startles him out of his reverie and he turns his head back towards the lodge, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes away from the sun and back towards his dimly-lit surroundings. She’s standing under the awning, half-obscured by the shadows, wearing only a thick white jumper and her ski-pants, the door to the lodge still ajar behind her. The glow from the indoor lamps reflects off her jumper, surrounding her like a halo of light, and he smiles—she is absolutely stunning. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her torso, her fingers curled tightly around the cable-knit of her jumper as if to keep herself warm, and her brow is furrowed until he turns to face her—her face instantly relaxes then, and she breaks into a wide grin.

 

“The one and only,” he says with a little more bravado than he feels. He takes off his helmet and shakes it out, ruffling a hand through his matted-down hair and grinning broadly at her.

 

Rose laughs, her breath making tiny puffs of frost in the night chill that suspend in the air like seeds blown off from a dandelion. She takes a step towards him, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. He brings his arms up to embrace her, but has barely settled his palms against the small of her back, barely registered how the scent of her shampoo wafts up into his nose when she pulls back, staring at the snowmobile behind him, her mouth open in astonishment.

 

“You fixed it!! Oh my god, let me look at it!”

 

The snowmobile is barely visible in the dark shadows of the awning, so she disentangles herself from his embrace and moves to a circuit panel on the outside of the ski lodge by the front door. John’s arms drop awkwardly to his sides as she moves away: he’s happy she’s enthralled with his repair, of course he is—he’d hoped for this reaction and it’s brilliant, truly—but his arms feel empty without her. To hell with the snowmobile—more than anything he wants to draw her back into his embrace and hold her tightly against him. The urge is so strong, burning in his muscles like a fire needing to be quenched, that he doesn’t trust himself _not_ to—so he shoves his hands in his pockets and watches her judiciously as she steps back towards the lodge.

 

She pulls a switch on the side of the building: the effect is instantaneous and the slopes are bathed in a floodlight. He blinks rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the bright lights, which don’t seem to faze Rose at all—her smile is even brighter than the floodlights as she stares at the snowmobile.

 

“It looks amazing… I can’t believe it!”

 

“Oi, have some faith!” he says with a wink, shuffling towards her and giving her a nudge in her side with his elbow. He’s not sure what response he’s expecting from that, but she smiles at him and bites her lip, her eyes dropping to the snow-caked ground.

 

“And… you drove it here too? All by yourself?”

 

“’Course I did,” he says with a small shrug. Her eyes raise to meet his own and he holds her gaze, continuing more softly, “ _You’re_ here.”

 

Something almost hopeful flickers in her eyes, like the rays of sunset flickering against the darkening sky, and she swallows, her smile fading slightly with the motion. Her eyes drop to the ground under her feet, staying focused on her boots for a long moment as her toe digs into a patch of snow. She’s standing less than a metre from him and he’s just about to step forward and take her hand, about to gently tug her back into his embrace when he hears her speak, so softly that he’s not quite sure he hears her at first.

“Thank you, for everything.”

 

“You should know by now—you never need to thank me,” he says, his voice raw and much, much huskier than he means it to be, and good lord it makes him feel nearly _bare_ , splayed out before her. He takes a step towards her, meaning to draw her back into a hug, but her head bobs up and it stops him in his tracks. She’s smiling, but it’s not as big as before, and there’s something in her eyes that seems almost sad.

 

“Even so…you’ve done so much. And you came all the way here to show me!” she laughs, but it seems slightly forced to his ears, though he’s not sure if he’s imagining it. “How about we head to Stout Point for dinner? My treat.”

 

He pauses, thinks the better of it, remembering their _last_ disastrous meal out, and he would never call it anything as ridiculous as a superstition, but he wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.

 

“Nahhh… how about I cook?”

 

She stares at him a long moment, then shakes her head. “No… that’s hardly a thank you—having you cook me dinner.”

 

“On the contrary, you’d be doing me a favor!” he says. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. “I have a new recipe I’ve been meaning to try out.”

 

She seems to consider that for a moment, her eyebrow still raised. Finally she nods, and glances back up at him. “Fine, but only if you let me help you.”

 

“ _You_ want to help? Really?”

 

She crosses her arms, in a way that almost seems like a challenge but cocks her head to the side in genuine curiosity. “Why so surprised?”

 

He quirks an eyebrow. “Because you _hate_ cooking.”

 

“I do not! And I’ll have you know I can boil water. _And_ peel potatoes.”

 

The smile she gives him is self-satisfied, and he’s positively _itching_ to tease her with a retort about her culinary mastery, but this renewal between them is so young, and as much as he’d like to believe they’re on the route to being normal, there’s something about this conversation that seems more awkward than normal—as if their camaraderie is still slightly forced—the hug she’d given him _had_ been brief, after all. His mind races, wondering if he’s said or done something wrong, something to push her away. Part of him wants to ask her—wants to start everything anew between them being open and honest—but she’s still smiling at him, waiting for his response, and the last thing he wants to do is to cause _more_ awkwardness. So instead, he just grins back her, taking a step back towards the snowmobile and tossing her a pink helmet. She moves back to the door of the lodge, shutting off the inside lights and grabbing her coat. He’s even more glad in that moment that he’d come to pick her up—she’s obviously the last person at the lodge, and she would have had to ski home in relative darkness if he hadn’t come to get her.

 

As she busies herself zipping her coat and fastening her helmet, John sits astride the snowmobile, attempting at least to _look_ comfortable, like he knows what he is doing. When she finally glances up, his heart races as he gives her a grin that he hopes comes across more confident than he feels—and she laughs, taking a step closer to the snowmobile. She reaches a hand out to his shoulder for balance as she swings her leg over the seat as well, settling in the seat behind him. He can’t help smiling to himself—she’s quite obviously going to let him do the driving. Even so, she’s sitting further back than John normally would when they rode together before, and although her arms settle around his waist he misses the expected sensation of her chest pressed taut against his back. He swallows down the disappointment and tries to focus his mind on his driving as he revs the engine.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to fadewithfury for the beta! We have about 6 more chapters to go! =)

John has never driven a snowmobile by himself before today—let alone in the dark—but, as always, Rose is an excellent teacher. She leans in close to him several times, one arm bracing tighter against his waist as she motions with her other hand, pointing out gentle slopes for easier maneuvering, letting him know when to ease up on the throttle. He follows her directions gladly, smiling at the faint sensation of her warm breath playing against his freezing jawline as she instructs him. After all, she knows these paths so well—she can instinctively navigate them despite the fact that night has almost completely fallen, the shadows lying across the snow like the dark silk of a bedspread. As she demonstrates the proper pressure to put on the lever for a smooth ride, her gloved fingers tentatively ghost over his hands—not quite touching, just… _lingering_ over his own.

It drives him absolutely mad.

He can’t help himself from leaning back slightly against her, so that he can feel the brush of her body beneath his own shoulderblades as she holds tightly onto him. It feels _right_ —god, being with her has _always_ felt so right.

Under her expert direction, he circles the snowmobile around the gentle contour of a hill, the rails skimming across the snow with ease. The fresh powder tossed up by the snowmobile looks like crystals, launched into the inky blackness of the landscape in a way that mirrors the stars spattering the dark sky above their heads. It’s a sight he almost never sees under the light polluted night sky of London, and if it weren’t for the frigid temperatures he’d stop the snowmobile, take Rose’s hand, and let himself just… _be_ here. He feels suspended between heaven and earth in that moment—insignificant on his own, but witness to unimagineable beauty. He _loves_ this, he realizes… he loves Rose of course, but he loves Weardale too—he loves everything about it. And Rose was right—this path is _much_ easier to navigate than the more convoluted way he’d come.

He smiles to himself once again—despite it all, everything seems easier, lighter when Rose is with him. It always has.

He wonders if she might ever feel the same way about him.

The ride is over much too fast, the outdoor floodlights of the B&B peeking over the crest of the next hill as their snowmobile traces a path back to the inn. Wilf had clearly turned them on, for which John is grateful—even with Rose’s instruction, navigation is difficult for him with the path illuminated only by the narrow, tinny beams of its headlights. He brings the snowmobile to a slow stop outside the garage—essentially blocking in the pile-of-junk snowmobile _Jimmy_ had seen fit to lend Wilf. Stretching out his lean frame, he dismounts and takes off his helmet. Rose unlocks the side door into the kitchen, and he cavalierly runs a hand through his hair—and it all feels so beautifully _domestic_. The room is completely dark except for a small lamp in the corner of the kitchen, and through the doorway he sees that even the sitting room is dark—Wilf has clearly turned in for the evening. Which is good, the older man needed the rest.

In the shadows, he sees Rose remove her helmet as well, looping it under her arm as her hands thread through the silky strands of her hair. Her arm extended in the darkness, she takes a step towards the wall as if to flick on the lightswitch by the door—a spot which is several meters away from her, but very close to where John is standing. As if it were second nature to help her, he reaches over and flips on the lights.

She flicks her eyes towards John, a smile of thanks on her lips, and blinks in the newfound brightness. Her eyebrows raise and her lips part as if she were about to ask a question, but she stills herself—instead, her mouth quirks and a small chuckle escapes as she turns around to face him.

"What?"

"Your hair," she laughs, her teeth biting playfully on the plump red of her lower lip.

John raises his eyebrows in surprise. He’s not sure whether to smile back—at the very least he’s made her laugh, and he loves to see her smile—or to frown from the small surge of affront he feels at being the person she seems to be laughing _at_.

"Oi, what’s wrong with my hair?"

"S’nothing, just…" She makes a vague motion with her hands towards the side of his temple.

He sniffs, eyes darting around for a mirror, and of course doesn’t find one—it’s the kitchen, after all. Attempting to not look as self-conscious as he feels, he sifts his hand through his hair and looks back over at her for approval.

"Better?"

She bites her lip as if to hold back another laugh.

"No, it’s still sticking up like—"

"Why don’t you fix it for me?" the words come out soft and silken, like a purr. They tumble out of his mouth, dropping to the floor like an offering at her feet—just waiting to see if she’d pick it up, if she _wanted_ to.

Oh god. Maybe she didn’t want to. This would be by far the most intimate contact they’d had since… well, since _ever_ , and he hates Jimmy— _god_ he hates him—but there still _is_ a Jimmy, and maybe it’s not fair to put Rose in a position where she—

"Yeah. Sure. OK," she says, and her eyes drop in a way that seems self-effacing. It could be his imagination, but he could swear her eyes linger on his mouth for a moment, stuck as it is in an optimistic smile.

She steps close to him, still biting her bottom lip, her eyes serious and now focused completely on his hair. She tentatively raises her hand towards his head, and he holds his breath, eyes fastened on her face to gauge her reaction as she reaches towards an errant lock. Her concentration is steadfast, but she takes a small breath and swallows the instant before her fingers come to rest on the strands of his hair. The tips of her fingers don’t touch his scalp, rather playing across the surface, combing through the bristly hair on the side of his head. He can’t tell exactly what she’s doing to it but finds he doesn’t care in the least—she can do whatever she wants to, as far as he’s concerned. The heel of her palm hovers so close to his face—right next to his cheekbone—that he can’t help but lean into it ever so slightly, just to create _some_ kind of contact between them.

His skin is still prickling with the cold from the nighttime air, and _god_ the warmth of her hand against his face feels like an inferno. It sizzles through his skin, blazing towards his lips and hotly out through his eyes as he gazes at her.

Rose blinks at the unexpected contact, pausing her ministrations. John stills as well, holding his breath for a moment, the fire from her touch at war with the block of ice that drops into his stomach at the thought that she might not want this, that she might pull away—

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she keeps her hand right where it is against the side of his face. She doesn’t move it any closer, doesn’t press it into his skin and _certainly_ doesn’t meet his eyes—but neither does she move away, and that’s all he can ask for. After a moment, her fingers begin their work again, the heel of her palm brushing across the apple of his cheek in a soft, incidental stroke as she runs them through his hair. He exhales, and she’s standing so close to him by now that the strands of her own hair dance across her shoulders as his breathe caresses them.

It’s beautiful, _she_ is beautiful, and he’s utterly transfixed. He can’t take his eyes off her—willing her to meet his gaze—but she never does. Instead, she keeps her eyes fixed resolutely on his hair. He wonders if he should read anything into that, but pushes down the thought.

"There," she says, and he wonders if the word indeed came out breathily, or if it was his imagination. "All better, yeah?"

"Thank you," he says quietly, and her hand falls from his face as she smiles and shrugs. She takes a step back all too quickly, something like guilt flickering over her expression, and the empty space between them feels heavy in its distance, crowded with awkwardness.

Absentmindedly, he threads his fingers through his hair—trying to think of something, _anything_ —to say. Rose’s lips quirk up and he realizes he probably un-did all of her work. He smiles gamely back at her, remembering why they came back to the B&B in the first place, and nods at the refrigerator.

"Hmm let’s see what we’ve got here," he says, stepping across the room to open the refrigerator door and leaning down to have a peek. He frowns—not much is here after all. Perhaps Wilf hasn’t gone shopping for a bit? He leans down to the crisper and opens the drawer—there are a handful of tomatoes which don’t look _too_ bad, and only slightly overripe.

He takes one out, tossing it idly from hand to hand as he muses on his options. It’s not quite what he was expecting to find—usually Wilf has a variety of fresh fruits, vegetables, breads and meats to choose from in advance of the weekend guests. Since there are no guests this week however, perhaps Wilf hadn’t bothered. Though even so, it’s certainly unlike Wilf to have _this_ little in the refrigerator… No matter, John decides. He won’t be able to make anything particularly impressive—certainly nothing that shows his usual culinary flair, but that can’t be helped. He can still put together a meal easily enough with what he has on hand.

Probably.

God he hopes she won’t be disappointed.

"Let’s see…" he says, putting the tomatoes on the counter and opening the cabinet where Wilf typically keeps his dry goods. "Ah! Pasta—perfect. Spaghetti with marinara sauce ok by you?"

John glances up at Rose, who nods brightly at him. He smiles back, relieved that _she’s_ satisfied with this plan. Turning back around towards the cabinets, he crouches down to open the door of one. Wilf keeps most of his pots and pans on the bottom shelf, and since it’s just him and Rose tonight, Wilf’s trusted old cast iron saucepan _should_ do the trick—

He pauses as he opens the double cabinet door and sees a large cardboard box sitting on top of Wilf’s sturdy assortment of iron pots and pans.

"What’s this?" he says, pulling the box out of the cabinet. Whatever it is, it’s _heavy_ , and he needs to brace the load against his knees and forearms as he lowers it to the floor lest he drop it.

"Go on, open it," she says, as one corner of the box thuds quietly on the floor of the kitchen. "He won’t mind."

"But it’s his—" John flicks his eyes up to Rose, who’s smiling down at him.

"No," she says, drawing out the syllable into a smile, and he understands from the look on her face that she must know _exactly_ what’s inside. “It’s for you.”

He stares back up at her for a moment, wondering what on _earth_ she could possibly mean, and then looks back down at the box, hesitant. The label on the side of the box is addressed to _Wilf_ , after all, and the return address is a location he doesn’t recognize. John can’t imagine what this could possibly have to do with him.

"You’re _sure_?”

"Of course," she says with a laugh. "Go on."

Still wary, John nonetheless grips a corner on the box and begins to peel the top off, the glue resisting him with each tug. Whatever is inside is packed tightly—factory packing, obviously, from both the tight fit of the foam wedges inside as well as the unmistakeable new-factory smell. He can’t tell what’s inside until he begins to pull out the foam wedges, which slide out slowly, dragging their heavy load with them and plopping it into his lap.

It’s a cooking pan. A _ceramic_ cooking pan.

He peers back into the box, still heavy against his legs. And actually, it’s not just _a_ ceramic pan—it’s an _entire set_ of them. Stainless steel on the outside, with a ceramic interior, and matching glass lids. There’s a dutch oven, a saute pan, two different sized saucepans, two skillets and a griddle. He holds a saucepan up in front of his face, his fingers trailing across the stainless steel exterior, pristine and glistening in the soft light of the kitchen. His eye catches the words on the underside of the cookware—Spirit Thermolon—and good _god_ he has ceramic cookware in flat back in London sure enough, but he’s never owned anything that comes even close to the quality of the pan he holds in his hands.

He glances back up at Rose, his mouth open in amazement—this is for _him_? Well, of course it’s for him, that’s obvious enough—he and Wilf had had numerous conversations about the benefits (in John’s view) vs the drawbacks (in Wilf’s view) of ceramic cookware. But John never, ever could have expected this. Brushing foam residue off his jeans, he stands up, shaking his head.

"Wilf can’t mean these to be for me. This is too much—far too expensive—"

"Oh, stop. He ordered those for you for Christmas, but they were on backorder. Since you like them so much more than the cast iron."

He nods dumbly. He can’t _not_ accept them, he knows that—but just saying thank you for something so exquisitely generous—something that Wilf doesn’t even _like_ and won’t even use—seems hardly sufficient.

"I’ll keep them here of course, they’re far too good to just warm up takeaway in my flat."

She laughs. “You forget I’ve seen pictures of you cooking in your flat—you do a lot more than just warm up takeaway! You can leave them here if you like, but they’re yours to take home if you want.”

He smiles. He hasn’t sent her pictures of his recipes-in-progress for over a month now—well before Chamonix. It feels a bit like old times, like the awkwardness between them is melting away with her reference to when things _weren’t_ so awkward and so, so unlike how he wants them to be.

"I’m only ever practicing recipes in my flat—things I make up here. It’s not _real_ cooking, it’s just experimenting. I mean… if I keep them up here I can use them to cook for _you_ —the both of you,” he says, and she smiles and shrugs, her eyes flitting away and he _knows_ he’s rambling, possibly losing her attention at any moment if he keeps going. Even so, he _needs_ to keep going.

There’s something he’s been meaning to tell her—because he’s not sure she knows.

Knows that he’s not with _Jeanne_ , that is.

It’s not like it would change anything—although god he still feels a flicker of hope in his chest at the thought that it might. There’s no time like the present, casual and offhand though a comment about it now might seem. Perhaps it’s better this way, even—a serious, sit-down conversation about it would be stilted and awkward and would likely involve reference to Jimmy eventually. And John wants no part in another argument about _him_ of all people.

And it needs to be said. She needs to know he’s not with anyone else, that his trip to Chamonix meant nothing on that front, that… that there’s no-one but _her_.

She starts to turn away and his heart somersaults into his stomach, the pinwheeling thoughts in his brain churning in dread. This is his chance. His _best_ chance. Even if he can barely get the words out, which is looking more and more like a distinct probability. He opens his mouth and takes a deep breath.

"Besides," he says, clearing his throat, his voice slightly high pitched from the worry hammering itself into his voice box. "In London, it would just be me. I don’t have anyone to cook for there—or, well, anywhere, really. Cooking for one— just for myself—with these… bit of a waste, don’t you think? I know you’re in London now, but… I’d still like to keep them here. So I can help Wilf cook of course but also… for when _you’re_ here. So whenever you want, I could… be here too. I’d much rather be here. Cook here. With you, that is.”

Something flickers across her otherwise unreadable face—uncertainty, perhaps? He thinks that’s likely, from the way her eyebrows draw quickly together. He holds her gaze for a long time—it feels like minutes although he knows it’s probably just seconds—willing her to know what he’s _trying_ to say with the intensity of his gaze despite the fact that any further words have dried up on his lips.

Bloody hell, he’s not sure he made any sense at all.

She doesn’t say a word but holds his gaze for a long minute. After another moment, she nods, making a little motion with her shoulders, and her eyes drop as she turns slowly back around towards the table, shrugging off her jacket.

And just like that, the conversation is over.

As he stares at her, turned away from him as she is, his thoughts tumble over themselves in his head. Has he bollocksed it all up again? Maybe she doesn’t even understand. That he’s sorry. That he _wants_ this thing—whatever it ends up being—with her. That he wants _her_ , damn it. He _knew_ he was rambling—he always seems to. _God_ he always does this—never says the right thing at the right moment when it’s something worth saying—the elegant words that would _matter_ swirling around in his brain until they come out of his mouth in an unrecognizeable heap. It serves him right—he should have told her everything so long ago, it’s his own damn fault that nothing’s coming out correctly now when he so desperately needs it to.

And she’s still just _standing_ there, biting her lip and staring at the floor near the box that holds all the cookware.

He almost shudders from the chill that accompanies the next thought to creep into him mind. Oh god… maybe she _does_ understand.

Maybe this is _her_ way of letting him down easy before he makes a bigger fool of himself. Maybe she understands perfectly and this is her way of saying she doesn’t feel the same way about him. She’d turned _away_ from him just now after all—and she _is_ with another man back in London. What even gives him the right to say how he feels at this late date? He might hate the bastard, but if Jimmy makes her happy—

His thoughts still in a jumble, he can’t take his eyes off her and he’s half horrified and half reeling as she crouches down and rifles through the pile of cardboard, pans, lids and foam blocks he’s left on the floor. After a moment, she picks up a saute pan and its matching lid, and stands up. With a smile, she holds it up in front of him as he stares back at her, breathless and mute.

"Well we can start tonight," she says, a tentative smile on her face. "Spaghetti and marinara. No time like the present, yeah?"

The tension that has been coiling inside of him unravels, unfolding onto his face in a dizzy, eager smile.

"Yeah."


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta fadewithfury

John puts Rose to work using _both_ her self-described culinary talents—setting water to boil one in of the brand new saucepans, and prepping tomatoes and garlic for the sauce. He’s admittedly a little more exuberant than the situation would seem to warrant, even _humming_ as he rummages through the cabinets for the supplies she’ll need, setting out his favorite serrated knife and Wilf’s best cutting board for Rose to do her work.

Cooking is hardly her favorite activity—and he’d assume that’s especially true now when she’s just gotten off a teaching shift at the ski lodge. He knows firsthand how tired she can be after an afternoon of teaching. Even so, she doesn’t look put out by this at all—if anything, she looks a little nervous—he’s well aware that the kitchen isn’t a place she feels particularly skilled or at ease.

Even so, her simple presence in the kitchen at his side makes him smile, as does the fact that the only reason she’s here in the kitchen at all—which was _her_ idea, mind—is to assist _him_. And to spend time with him too, he’d like to think, although he tries not to read too much into that.

Which makes it mean even more that she’s willing to _be_ here. With him.

For his part, he unloads the rest of the Spirit Thermolon cookware into the sink and begins gently washing the various pots and pans, his fingers trailing over the delicate ceramic in wonder and appreciation at the gift he’s been given. Not just the cookware, of course—although he’s grateful for that too—but rather the chance to be back in Weardale yet again, with Rose and Wilf. He glances over at Rose as he works, and he can’t help smiling to himself.

Here they are, side by side, and it feels so domestic and… so _right_. In that moment it’s easy to him to push all their lingering problems out of his mind and just focus on _being_ here with her.

John had grabbed several of the least-overripe tomatoes out of the crisper, rinsing them in the sink. He’s not _exactly_ trying to impress her, but he nonetheless doesn’t object when she marvels at being showed the easiest way to peel them—blanching them in hot water to loosen their skins then plunging them in a small bowl of ice water to loosen them further before peeling. He then sets them on the cutting board for Rose, and she peels them with ease, tossing a smile in his direction. The dicing, however, seems to have her a little more uneasy. Worrying her lip, she takes one of the newly-peeled tomatoes into her hand, hesitating a moment before gripping it tightly and cutting it crosswise with a jagged, uneven line. A thin stream of juice leaks onto the cutting board from the knife, and she’s just about to cut it in half again when John gently interrupts her.

“It’s easier if you core it first.”

“Core it? You mean… like scoop out all the insides?”

He nods. It’s easier if he _shows_ her rather than trying to explain it in words. The fact that his arm brushes against the soft curve of her waist as he takes the knife from her hand is purely incidental—truly, it is—and she stills. Something unpleasant and thick flips over in his stomach, and he thinks back to a few moments before, at the expression of guilt that had flickered over her face when she’d smoothed his hair. Forcing an apologetic smile onto his face, he takes a step to the side, away from her, and clears his throat, forcing himself to focus on the tomato in his hand.

“Sort of—like this. Just squeeze out the seeds, see? Then take the rest of the tomato and cut the strips as wide as you want the diced pieces to be.”

“How wide should I make them?”

He shrugs and gives her what he hopes is a reassuring grin. “As wide as you’d like.”

She nods, lips pressed together and eyes focused in concentration, and resumes cutting them into strips.

They work quietly side by side, John glancing over at her every few moments. She’s followed his instructions to the letter and has a small pile of diced tomatoes to show for it at the conclusion of her efforts. He smiles to see the smile playing around on _her_ lips.

“Thank you,” he says. “Very well done—these will make a great marinara. I can show you how—if you want.”

She nods, and he thinks the better of having her dice the garlic, instead putting a handful of cloves into the food processor. He shows her how to sautee the garlic, coating a skillet in olive oil and cooking the cloves gently until they are soft and fragrant, their scent permeating the air. He throws a pinch of salt to the water she’s boiled and adds the pasta, showing her how replacing the pot’s lid immediately thereafter helps to return the pasta to a boil quickly to end up with the best texture. Together they add the tomatoes to the skillet when the garlic is ready—she holds the cooking board and he gently scrapes the tomatoes into the pan, trying and failing to keep his hand from brushing against hers in the process. Among many other missing food staples, Wilf seems to be almost entirely out of fresh herbs, which John learned from Wilf’s cookbook to add to his marinara sauces to give the best flavor. Even so, he prattles on as he stirs the pot, telling her how basil and parsley would go _wonderfully_ in their sauce, and how he’d even been experimenting with adding pancetta and guanciale for extra flavor. He looks up and she’s smiling at him, her expression unguarded and her eyes warm.

He stills, not sure at first exactly _how_ that makes him feel, other than utterly relieved. It’s the closest to looking _happy_ that he’s seen her in a month. It strikes him in that moment that this is the closest he’s felt to being happy since then, too.

God he’s missed this— _all_ of this.

“Thank you,” she says after a moment, her voice soft.

“What for?”

“Teaching me all this. Or trying to, rather. I know I’m rubbish at it.”

He cocks his head to the side and scrunches his nose, pretending to consider this for a moment. She does seem to be a _bit_ uncomfortable with cooking for having grown up with Wilf, and for helping run a B&B of all things—not that he’d ever _tell_ her that, of course. “Wellll… you’ve taught me a lot I’d have been rubbish at otherwise, it’s the least I can do.”

He’s expecting a smile, or an affronted poke in the ribs— _something_ —but instead she grows quiet, pausing for a moment and biting her lip. His stomach flops around and his mind races back over his words, wondering if he’s said something to offend her.

“If you…” she says, her voice hesitant, and her eyes drop to the floor. “I mean, you probably don’t—that’s OK, but if you ever—”

“What?” he says softly, hoping the word comes out like a gentle coaxing.

She pauses again. “I mean, I still owe you…”

“You don’t owe me anything, Rose.”

“Yes, I do. I owe you a lesson—from… ya know, from when you were taking lessons—”

His heart flips, and her words make him so hopeful that he can’t help but just stare at her dumbly for a moment, for want of everhaving expected this. He’d wanted this— _god_ of course he’d wanted this—but would never, _ever_ have asked. Not with how much of a mess he’d left things with her with the whole Chamonix situation. He didn’t deserve it—he’d be the first to admit that—he’d hoped, of course, a surreal kind of idle hope that he hadn’t _seriously_ thought til this very moment might actually come to fruition. Not anytime soon, at least, with the awkwardness between them still so tangible.

“I’d _love_ to.” His words rush out thick, earnest, the intensity of his tone nearly palpable even to him.

She moves her eyes over towards the still-simmering pot, as if unconvinced of both his response as well as the value of her own offer. “I mean… I know you don’t need them anymore—”

And he wants to cut her off, because he _does_ need them—not because he knows full well he remains a mediocre skier at best—but because he needs _her_. Achingly, viscerally, whole-bodily needs her. The thought strikes him with all the force of a slap across the face—if anything, more than skiing, _that_ has been what he’s been taught by both her lessons and her friendship.

“—I just mean—you don’t have to—I’m just saying, ‘cause you already paid and—”

“But I _want_ them, Rose—” He can’t stop himself from interrupting her there—he can’t bear it any longer, the fact that she could so clearly be unsure about how he feels on the topic. “I love skiing with you. I love it. And—if you want to—if you’re _willing_ to, I mean… I’d _love_ to. If you want.”

“You’re sure?” she asks, still looking at the pot. Her words are small—almost meek—and uncertain.

He hates himself in that moment for ever having caused her any doubt about it at all.

“I want to,” he says, emphasizing each syllable.

She pauses and nods her head, her eyes still on the pot. After a moment, she takes a deep breath. “How about next weekend, if you’ll be back up here? Or—after work this week? My lesson spots aren’t full at the arena yet…”

He smiles down at her, and finally— _finally_ —she looks up at him, her lips quirking up in a small smile of their own. He’d love to see her during the week of course, but the thought of spending this coming weekend with her here in Weardale, just like they used to before Chamonix, is utterly irresistible to him.

“Next weekend is perfect,” he says.

—

“Your marinara sauce is _brilliant_ ,” he says as they sit across from each other at the dining room table.

He means it—the sauce turned out quite well, actually, even minus the usual ingredients and spices which would normally have given it depth and texture. He finds he doesn’t mind this at all—there’s something beautiful in the simplicity of its flavour. Instead of seeming like the sauce is absent something, he finds by that making it with fewer ingredients like this his tongue can better appreciate the understated, sweet tang of the tomatoes and the underlying aroma of the garlic.

“You mean _your_ sauce is brilliant— _you_ did all the actual cooking,” Rose smirks, shaking of her head, stabbing at her pasta with her fork.

John puts down his fork, shaking his head in adamant disagreement _._ “Well, in that case we may as well say it’s Wilf’s brilliant sauce since he bought the actual ingredients—and, might I remind you, the pots!”

Rose raises her eyebrows. “Well that _still_ means it’s yours since he gave those pots to you, mister—plus you have free reign of the kitchen here.”

John grins at her and slaps the table in victory—feeling utterly vindicated. “And _that_ means that it’s really _your_ sauce, since I wouldn’t have even _met_ Wilf if it weren’t for you.”

Rose laughs, tossing her head back, and he grins at her.

“Okay, okay—I give up,” she says. “How about… how about we say it’s _ours_?”

 _Ours._ Somehow, their agreement on that word—especially here, in this place that he loves so much, with the woman that he loves so much, fills John with more warmth than anything else all evening.

He smiles. “I quite like the sound of that.”

They’re halfway through their dinner—and John is halfway through a story about his old physics mentor Dr. Lethbridge-Stuart at Durham University, whom he _still_ owes a phone call—when he hears the bell jangle over the front door. Cocking his head over his shoulder, he sees the doorknob jerk several times as if someone’s having trouble turning it all the way. He furrows his eyebrows, wondering who it could be—there are no guests expected this weekend, after all. Suddenly, the door lurches open, and a gust of icy wind blows awry the blue curtains over the front windows, folding them over each other in a disordered tangle of vintage fabric. He stares at the newcomer… it’s Bev, loaded down with a big box of what appears to be groceries, her parka zipped up tight around her.

Rose’s smile is instantaneous. “Hi Bev!,” she says, out of her seat immediately to help her with the box.

For his part, John doesn’t grin, nor does he greet Bev, instead staying seated right where he is. Given his most recent frigid conversation with her, he’s not sure his help would even be wanted. And given his _annoyance_ over being treated that way, he isn’t particularly inclined even to try.

“Hi,” Bev says. Her voice is cool, though not biting in its coldness like the last time John had seen her, and she looks from John to Rose and back again with something akin to suspicion lurking in her eyes. Clearly Jimmy’s mother, indeed. Keeping her eyes trained on Rose, Bev nods down at the box. “I’ve brought some groceries over for Wilf.”

Rose smiles, big and bright. “That’s so thoughtful—thank you!”

Wordless, Bev shrugs as she hands the box over to Rose, more dropping it into Rose’s hands than placing it in them. As soon as she’s extricated herself from her load, Bev shakes out her gloved hands as if to regain circulation in them, and nods back towards the front door. “It’s icy out front… you should take care of that, wouldn’t do to have any of your guests falling down.”

“Not before they get on the slopes, at least,” John quips with a quick glance at Rose, who shakes her head and giggles as she moves into the kitchen. He smiles reflexively at the sound of her laugh, his lips curving upwards as he winds a forkful of pasta with _their_ marinara sauce and takes a bite.

“Yeah. Well.” Bev says. Her expression remains as unsmiling as it’s been from the moment she entered the inn. Her eyes are completely focused on him now, unreadable except for their complete _absence_ of anything resembling the friendliness he’d previously come to expect from the woman.

“No guests this weekend anyway,” Rose calls over her shoulder as she puts the box on the kitchen counter.

Bev doesn’t bat an eye—she doesn’t look surprised in the least. Instead, she nods slowly.

“So it’s just you two here?” Bev says after a moment, and John’s _positive_ he’s not imagining the way her eyes narrow slightly, flitting between Rose and him and back to Rose again.

“Well… and Wilf,” he says, glancing at Rose, who’s unloading the box, which seems to be full of bread, milk, vegetables—nearly everything they’d been missing, in fact. “Wilf is here of course.”

“Of course,” Bev says, although there’s something in the way she unnecessarily draws out the statement—a question? an accusation?—that belies the words themselves.

He doesn’t much know and doesn’t much care, and can’t bring himself to think too much about it other than his annoyance that whatever is in her tone is there to begin with. John stares at her for a moment, willing his face into as expressionless a mask as possible. He’s not stupid, and she’s not as coy as she _obviously_ thinks she’s being—between her tone now and his previous conversation with her at the general store, she is clearly insinuating there’s some… some… _something_ going on between him and Rose that’s wrong. A spark of something deeper than annoyance—almost akin to anger, in fact—flares in his chest and he ducks his head down lest he glare back at her. The last thing he wants to do is cause a fight with stupid Jimmy’s stupid _mother_ , and create any trouble for Rose.

No matter how he feels about Bev, or Jimmy—or Bev _and_ Jimmy—he can push it down, for Rose’s sake.

“How was his appointment?” Bev asks as Rose reenters the room.

“He said it went fine, it was just a checkup with his eye doctor.”

Bev nods again. “Good to hear.”

Rose smiles anew, nodding her head at Bev. “And… how have you been? Jimmy said something about you getting new shelves for the store?”

 _Jimmy_ …. John sighs, feeling as though all of the pleasantness of the past hour has been sucked from the room as quickly as all the warm air had been when Bev opened the door.

“Yeah, installed them this past week,” Bev answers.

Still smiling, Rose nods at Bev’s words.

The silence that drops between them then is palpable—awkward and heavy. John looks down at his pasta for lack of anything to actually _say_.

“Thanks again for looking after gramps, I’m sure he appreciates it,” Rose says, biting her lip.

Bev raises her eyebrows and looks down, fiddling with the fabric knot on the end of her jacket’s zipper. “Yeah well… he needs it, you know.”

Rose stills, confusion fluttering across her face, furrowing her eyebrows and staring at Bev. “Wait… what do you mean?”

“I mean that he needs some help. It’s been hard on him having you gone. He said he’s been feeling a bit tired so I’ve been helping him out—best as I can, at least. I bring groceries over a couple of times a week for him, and he’s had trouble digging out the carpark on his own too, so Rodrigo’s been coming over after work when he can.”

Rose’s brow furrows. “Really? He didn’t say anything about that to us.”

Bev’s eyes snap from her zipper back up to Rose—practically _glaring_ at her—as soon as the word _us_ leaves Rose’s lips. Rose doesn’t seem to notice, looking to John with an almost lost expression, as if beseeching him for backup to make sure she couldn’t possibly be wrong about something so important, and so basic.

John nods at Rose, and schools his expression as he glances coolly back at Bev. “No he didn’t, not a word—I would have come back to help sooner…” He briefly considers saying _we_ would have come back to help sooner, but stops himself—there’s no point in antagonizing this woman further than she’s clearly already accomplishing quite well all by herself. So what if Rose is dating her bloody son and she’s _clearly_ a bit jealous on his behalf—she doesn’t need to act as if Rose is doing something _wrong._

“Well you’ve your hands a bit full back in London,” says Bev, and the words seem plain enough to his ears at first—but there’s something in her eyes as she flicks her eyes from John to Rose that causes his own eyes to narrow. He bites back a comment about it perhaps would have been easier for Wilf to get out there—both to run his own errands _and_ to plow his own carpark—if he’d had his vehicle of choice. He clenches his jaw against any comment that might come spilling out, but he can’t and won’t hold back a glare at the woman. The implication that it’s been _Rose’s_ absence causing Wilf some fatigue—as opposed to the fact that her bloody tosser of a son carelessly ruined the man’s primary vehicle—incenses him so much that his lungs ache from the strain of holding back his words. He takes a deep, slow breath to calm himself.

Bev catches his eye, staring back at him, her face expressionless, and then turns back to Rose.

“I’d better be going. Tell your grandfather I’ll stop back by Tuesday if he needs me to. I’ll ask Rodrigo to come by tomorrow to salt the carpark—”

“I’ll salt it,” John says, his words quick, quiet and low. They rumble out of his throat almost like a growl, not that Bev seems to notice—she’s not even looking at him anymore.

“All right then,” Bev says, and with a nod to Rose she opens the door and steps outside, letting in another blast of cold air in her wake.

Staring at the floor, Rose makes her way slowly back down to the table. She doesn’t look at John as she sits down, instead fixing her eyes on her half-finished pasta—her eyes vacant and her brow furrowed. She doesn’t move to pick up her fork again, leaving her hands clasped tightly in front of her on the table.

John reaches over, brushing Rose’s thumb gently with his own and squeezing her hands. She doesn’t say a word, but he feels her thumb stroke against his palm in response. Her fingers are cold and he can’t resist the urge to envelop her small hands in his warmer ones as he ducks his head down to get her attention.

“Rose… we’ll talk to him in the morning. I’m sure we can sort this out. It’s probably nothing, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Rose says, but her tone is hesitant.

For better or worse, their dinner is clearly over, and they sit silently at the table, John holding Rose’s hands firmly in his own, willing her some semblance of comfort through his touch. After a few minutes, she gives him a wan smile, and moves to take her plate and stand up—she has an early ski lesson tomorrow and needs to head to bed soon, after all. He smiles at her, tells her not to worry—that he’ll take care of the dishes and that the best thing she can do is to get some sleep. She nods, gives his hands one last squeeze, and moves away from the table and towards the stairs. She pauses and glances towards the darkened living room as she passes by—Wilf is usually still up by now, sitting in his easy chair, regaling them with tales about mining and old Weardale and how things _used_ to be. Slowly, she makes her way past the family photos—Rose as a little girl, Rose and Wilf outside the B&B, Rose and Wilf and her parents at some sort of miners picnic—and ascends the creaky stairs.

As soon as Rose is out of sight, John sighs, dropping his head into his hands for a moment and rubbing his eyes. Between his long day at work, the drive here, _and_ the exhausting appearance of Bev, the day has finally taken a toll on him. Wilf will be fine, he knows— _is_ fine, rather—it was only an eye doctor appointment after all. Damn Bev, making Rose worry _needlessly_ like that. Practically _guilt-tripping_ her for moving to London—which, by the way, is something that Wilf had specifically encouraged her to do on multiple occasions, even just in the relatively short few months since John had met him. Annoyed, he stands up and makes his way towards the door Bev had just departed from. With a flourish, he locks it for the evening, turning off the outdoor lights for good measure.

He turns towards the front windows, the blue vintage curtains still in disarray from the breeze that had accompanied Bev’s entrance. Gently, he lifts his fingers towards them, neatly folding them back into place. He vaguely remembers being a little critical of them when he first came to the inn and smiles to himself—they suit the place quite nicely, actually. He gives the thick, rich fabric one last appreciative stroke before heading to the kitchen.

—

“I’m _fine_ ,” Wilf says the next morning as he cooks breakfast—without any assistance from John this time, as the older man had literally shooed him from the kitchen, _insisting_ on proving he could cook it on his own without help. Wilf bangs one of the cast-iron pans against the stove for emphasis, and John winces at the heavy sound of metal clanging against metal.

“But gramps, that’s not like you, having someone else run errands for you like that,” Rose says, coming up behind Wilf and laying a gently hand on the older man’s back.

From the tilt of her head and the gently tone in her voice, she’s obviously trying to be caring and conciliatory, John thinks—but this only seems to annoy Wilf further, assuming that’s at all possible. The older man throws a glance over his shoulder at her, his eyes burning.

“It’s _normal_ for an old man to be a little tired every so often. I have my snowmobile back now thanks to John, and I can run my own errands from now on. And I fully intend to give Bev Stone a talking-to for putting those daft thoughts in your head in the first place.”

Rose frowns and bites her lip, tossing a glance over at John. He swallows and takes a deep breath.

“But if you need help, Wilf—“

Wilf wheels around, his glare falling on John this time. Good lord but he’s never seen the man as annoyed as this.

“I keep telling you, I’m fine. I’m _not_ a bloody child. I’ve been running this inn for more than fifty years, on my own for most of that time. I’m perfectly capable!” Wilf’s says, his voice nearly breaking from frustration.

“I could help you out more maybe, though?” Rose asks. “I can stay a bit longer—we have guests booked for this weekend, yeah? ”

Wilf stares at her, his expression stony. “You’re going back to London first thing Monday. I will take care of _my_ guests at _my_ inn myself. If you even think about missing school because of some daft idea that woman has put in your mind, I will be very upset, young lady. And the same goes for you,” he continues, his hot gaze now landing on John.

John swallows. “We only want—”

Wilf sighs, clearly exasperated, closing his eyes and raking a hand over his face. “I know what you’re trying to do. And if I needed anything, I would tell you. But I _don’t_.”

Wilf turns back around towards the stove, muttering a curse under his breath as the pancakes start to give off a slightly burned odor, likely from the heat of the flame he’d inadvertently left on during their argument. John gazes over at Rose and shakes his head. She bites her lip, still frowning, but she nods back at him all the same.

“Here,” Wilf says gruffly. “Eat your breakfast—then _you_ go teach your lessons, Rose—and John, you have a long trip back to London ahead of you.”

Sighing, John takes his plate and the three of them eat their slightly-singed pancakes in silence.

—

He makes the long, lonely drive back to London later that morning—it’s the first time he can recall feeling like his presence wasn’t welcome in Weardale. Not by Wilf, at least. Even after Chamonix, when he was most worried he’d be persona non grata, Wilf had welcomed him with open arms. This time… he can’t shake the feeling that he and Rose had struck a nerve, that Wilf somehow was insulted by their concern.

He sighs deeply, willing himself to put it out of his mind—it will blow over, he tells himself. These are the closest people in the entire world to him. Wilf is obviously fine—everything else will be fine, too.

The rest of his weekend goes by in a bit of a blur—mainly filled with dreary paperwork and exams and reports against the noisy backdrop of his London street where street crews seem to be perpetually doing construction of late. The one bright spot is Rose, who calls him that evening to let him know that Wilf seems to be feeling more spry. Wilf had even gone into town that day on the snowmobile to run errands, just to prove the point, she says. John smiles, happy that Rose’s fears are allayed and happy to hear from her at _all_ , frankly… it doesn’t escape his notice that it’s the first time she’s picked up the phone to call him since before Chamonix.

He and Rose text briefly over the next few days—well, _he_ does, at least—she grows oddly quiet after Monday, the day she’s due to return to London. On Tuesday, none of his text messages are returned at all. Then again, she’d had a big assignment due that day, so he supposes she’s just busy.

On Wednesday, he checks the post as soon as he comes home from work, and finds an envelope from London Mining. _Technically_ it’s addressed to Rose, but even more technically he’s still her agent—so he opens it, smiling broadly as he sees a cheque made out to her for £1,000 for the patent license.

He grabs his mobile to message her immediately.

_Your patent cheque is here! £1,000 as promised. Want me to drop it by?_

The screen dims, fading to black, and there’s no response. Five minutes go by without a response, then ten, then twenty—and he’s still holding both the mobile and the bloody cheque in his hand, just as excited as if it had been addressed to _him_ personally.

He sends her another message.

_I’ll be over to drop it by in a few minutes._

He pulls on his coat, checks to make sure he has his keys—and the cheque of course—and is out the door and on his way to her flat within minutes. The twilight is soft and hazy around him, and the night seems to be brimming with possibilities, the mood underscored by the sparkling lights of the London streets. He checks his mobile again as he pulls in front of Rose’s building—no response. Hopefully she’s not with Jimmy, he thinks—although she’s usually been pretty good about texting him back regardless of the boy’s presence recently.

Loping up to the building, he punches in the number of her flat—#48—into the security panel by the front door, and waits impatiently as the dialtone connects him to Rose’s flat.

“Yeah?” answers a tinny female voice over the speaker—a voice which is most certainly not Rose’s. He smiles—it’s likely Tricia then, he imagines.

“Hello—is this Tricia?”

“Yeah. Who is this?”

“It’s John Smith—Rose’s friend. Is she home? I have something to drop off for her.”

There’s a pause, and then Tricia laughs. Even through the cheap wiring of the speaker the utter _bitterness_ of her laugh is almost palpable.

“You’re looking for Rose. What a surprise. Well, that cow doesn’t live here anymore.”

And with that, Tricia hangs up.


End file.
